1: Family Emergency
by Math Girl
Summary: A seemingly routine rescue in the wintery hills of Macedonia turns into a hostage crisis. Virgil and Scott are captured, and their brothers must race to the rescue. Very thermonuclear, alternate universe, but it has its moments.
1. A Call

Thunderbirds

_Family Emergency_

1

John Tracy was in the middle of an internet video game when the call came through. He didn't understand the language- it sounded vaguely Slavonic, he thought- but the sender's desperation got through clearly enough. Hitting the pause button, John reached over and flipped on the control console's translator. The resulting plea was more than enough to get his attention.

Violet-blue eyes narrowing slightly, he listened closely as Thunderbird Five's mighty computer system spat out a rapid translation.

"Please," came the synthesized voice, "They're trapped! Fifty men, maybe more! There are others missing also, who do not respond! The mine has collapsed in many places, and there are many trapped and wounded! Help us, please! If anyone is listening, for the love of God, call International Rescue!"

A quick trace gave him the sender's coordinates, pinpointing the source far below him in Eastern Europe. It sounded authentic... but John hesitated, running a language scan instead of immediately putting out the alert. Once or twice a call for help had turned out to be a hoax; some sky-larking kids, say, or a couple of teenaged girls who just wanted a crack at a Thunderbird pilot. The scan checked out, though, matching the speaker's vocabulary and dialect to the indicated trouble spot.

John drummed his fingers on the console, mentally weighing the evidence. Such judgement calls were a big part of his job, and they never made him happy. Then, coming to a decision, he hit the comm switch, tensing just a bit as he did so.

Tall, blond and slender, with the chiseled face of a male model and the soul of a poet, John was something of an oddity amid the rough-and-tumble Tracy clan; sensitive and silent. He didn't call home often, or very comfortably, and when he _did_ make contact, he stuck to business.

As John looked on, the center view screen flashed, switching from a transmitted view of Earth's night side to Jeff Tracy's teak-paneled study. He was in luck- Scott was at the desk for a change, looking decidedly bored. John relaxed a little, even giving his brother a faint smile.

"Good evening, Scott."

"It's afternoon over here, but who's arguing? Everything okay up there?"

Scott leaned forward, smiling broadly. Like John, he was blue-eyed, but his short hair was almost black rather than John's moon-lit blond. Heavy dark brows and a cleft chin gave him the sort of rakish good looks that made women warm and foolish... or would have, if he'd spent any time around them. Scott Tracy was die-cast in his father's mold; a type-A workaholic largely blind to anything but spreadsheets, piloting and coffee.

Responding to his question, John nodded solemnly. "No problems on my end, Scott, but I think I may have something for you."

"Fire away."

Nodding once more, John replayed the message for his brother, who listened intently, rubbing at the side of his chin and frowning.

"Yeah...," he said at last, "sounds serious, alright. I'll whistle up Virgil, and we'll go have a look." Then, as a sudden afterthought, "Do me a favor and leave a message for Father, will you? He's at corporate HQ in some kind of international teleconference. He'll be out of touch till the meeting breaks up, but I want to keep him posted. Don't suppose you could hack past the comm blackout and get ahold of him now, could you?"

John shook his head. "Not in time to do any good. Brains designed TA's defenses, remember? Too many damn firewalls, countermeasures and spy-bots. Last time I tried, I brought the whole system crashing down."

Scott hastily changed the subject, wincing as he recalled their father's reaction to that little escapade and the months of expensive rebuilding that had followed.

"Right. Do what you can, then. We're on our way."

"F.A.B., Scott. Good luck..."

His older brother flashed him another quick smile, and then the screen switched back to distant Earth-view. Worried, suddenly, and unable to quite decide why, John rose and went to the space station's long window; stood looking down upon the slowly rolling planet below.

"...And be careful."


	2. Chapter 2: Emergency

2

Down on the island, Scott watched his brother's picture fade back into blank stillness.

_"Got_ to get him back down here, some kind of way, and soon," he mumbled to himself. "Maybe it's about time Junior did some time in solitary...," Then, getting briskly to his feet, Scott strode to the door, pausing just a moment to let it open before him. Sticking his head through, he bellowed,

"VIRGIL! Hey, Virge! _Get over here!"_

He could have buzzed his younger brother on the wrist comm, but he'd always been a dedicated shouter, much to his family's aspirin-popping chagrin.

Virgil Tracy loped into the study a few moments later, looking mildly concerned. Judging from the cake crumbs on his plaid shirt front, he'd been in the refrigerator, again.

"Don't let Grandma catch you at that," Scott told him reprovingly. But he might just as well have saved himself the trouble, for all the impact he had.

"What's up?" Virgil asked, unabashed. "We launching?"

Brown-haired and dark-eyed, he was a big, solid, younger replica of his father, handsome in a blunt, middle-American sort of way.

"Yup. Mine collapse in...um...Macedonia, looks like." Scott replied, after a brief glance at his PDA. John had already sent along the coordinates, weather hazards and topography, enabling the fastest possible response.

Virgil pondered a moment. "Need the mole, then..." he decided, "...and maybe Firefly. Don't guess there's any chance of flooded shafts?"

"Uh-uh," Scott grunted, "or at least, nobody's mentioned it so far. I'll put Gordon on stand by, though, just in case. He's still over in the EU, with the Olympic swim team. Penelope can keep him up to date, and give him a lift, if necessary."

"Right. Upload me the info, then, and I'll meet you at the danger zone." Striding over to a certain wall panel, Virgil stood with his back against the apparently solid teak, continuing, as Scott pressed a series of buttons on their father's massive desk, "You know, you'd think Brains could design something a little more conventional for a boarding system. Gantries and elevators, for instance... wave of the future."

The panel tipped up and backward, lifting Virgil smoothly off his feet and sliding him head-first down a hidden chute, still complaining. Scott grinned boyishly.

"Well," he called after his grousing brother, "you know Brains. Why settle for simplicity when a Rube Goldberg nightmare 'll do just as well? Besides," he added, "it isn't Hackenbacker's fault you get motion sick."

There was another trick access panel for him, though this one pivoted rather than flipped, mercifully. Scott was about to set off when he realized that no-one was minding the desk. With Father occupied elsewhere, and Gordon and Alan off the island, only two choices remained. One, really, as Brains was no doubt down in the cliff-side hangar preparing Thunderbird 2.

Pressed for time, and hating it, Scott stalked out of the room, calling "TinTin!" at the top of his considerable lungs. When three or four window-rattling bellows failed to gain a response, he strode over to the mansion's family room. No TinTin. She wasn't in the kitchen, either.

By this time, Scott was becoming angry. Lives were hanging in the balance, and he was wandering around the estate searching for TinTin! In the solarium he nearly collided with Kyrano, his father's manservant.

Slim and slight of build, Kyrano often seemed, with his greying hair and deeply lined face, to be the calmest, most centered man on the island. He bowed now, saying,

"I believe that you will find my daughter on the pool deck, Mr. Scott."

"Huh? Oh... thanks, Kyrano. I just need her to watch the desk until Brains is through with the pod." This last Scott called over his shoulder as he sped through a set of etched sliding glass doors and out into blinding sunshine.

Tracy Island, once known as Kanaho, was beautiful. Bursting everywhere with luxuriant blooms and jewel-toned birds; with things that buzzed, hopped, crawled and climbed. It looked to be the very definition of a tropical paradise. One would never have guessed, seeing it in 2065, that just over a hundred years before it had been an atomic test site. Jeff Tracy had acquired the volcanic island from the U.S. government at a rock bottom price, and had since done everything in his power to encourage the return of native life forms, though the indigenous people had long since died out, laid low in the 1800s by European guns and diseases. In its favor, for Jeff Tracy's purposes, the island was out of the way, claimed by no-one, and all but forgotten.

Scott strode across the mansion's colorfully tiled lower pool deck, seething with impatience. A dull rumbling noise had started up, just at the lower edge of detectability. The 'cliff face' was opening up...! Virgil would be launching in a matter of minutes!

_"TinTin!"_

She was lying out by the pool on an ornate chaise lounge, earphones on her head and a calculus text in her hands. No wonder she hadn't heard him! That noise she was listening to was loud enough to be irritating from fifteen feet away. Or maybe just bad enough...!

Scowling, he bounded over and yanked the headphones off. "TinTin!"

_"Hey!"_ Her textbook crashed to the ground and she came up swinging, too long accustomed to roughhousing with Alan and Gordon to go down without a fight. Suddenly catching sight of Scott, she cried out, "Oh!" and pulled her punch, barely grazing his jaw rather than loosening half his teeth. "Hi, Scott! Sorry! Is something the matter?"

TinTin Kyrano had a sweet voice, and a sweeter face. She was beautiful, smart and spirited, with long, dark hair, big almond eyes, and a soft, dusky mouth... full of chewing gum, which she inflated just then into a vast pink bubble and expertly snapped.

Hearing Virgil running up the engines, Scott hurriedly made his request.

"TinTin, I need you at the desk until Brains wraps things up in Hangar 2." Indicating her disc player, he added, "leave 'Funky Dan and the Noisy Bunch', there, off so that you can..."

"Toxic Scream," the girl informed him loftily, "not 'Funky Dan'."

"Whatever. Just keep 'Toxic Phlegm' down to a dull roar so...,"

_"Toxic Scream," _she repeated slowly, as if speaking to an utter social cripple. "They're _everyone's_ favorite group this year. Tune in, sometime, Scott, and join the rest of humanity."

With an expression that suggested he'd rather be flash-fried in peanut oil, Scott grunted,

"Yeah. I'll give it some thought. Now, mind the desk, keep the volume down, and listen for John. This should be a quick one, but it never hurts to be careful."

She smiled. "Got it, Scott. No panic, I'm on the job!"

Nodding once, Scott turned and sprinted for the door as, with a deepening roar, Thunderbird 2 nosed slowly out of its hangar.

"Nice try, Virge," he muttered, "but you're not beating me to the danger zone. I'm right beh..." His wrist comm went off before he could complete the thought.

"What is it?!" Scott demanded testily, almost breaking the thing, he hit it so hard.

Brains- alias Mr. Hackenbacker, Mr. X, Dr. Honecker, and several dozen less frequent identities- peered out at him from the comm's little screen. He was a nervous, thin-faced man in his mid-thirties, with thick spectacles and dusty brown hair like a rabbit-gnawed lawn.

"S-Scott," he inquired, sounding really perplexed, "why are you, ah... are you s-still out on th-the pool deck? Ah... Virgil's ready to go."

Controlling himself with a visible effort, Scott paused, took a deep breath, and said,

"I'm on my way, Brains. TinTin's got the desk. Help her hold the fort, and tell Gordon he's got twenty-four hours to get his butt back over here. I don't care if he has to hitch-hike. I hate being short handed."

"Ah... alright, S-Scott. I'll t-tell him. B-but he just, ah,,, just left for Europe the ... the other day."

"Yeah, well...," Scott had started moving again. "We all have our crosses to bear. Mine's dealing with perpetual chaos. Gordon can suck it up and miss a week of training. He'll live." And with that, he tapped off the wrist comm and stalked back inside.

Meanwhile, Virgil was ready to launch. The pre-flight checks were complete and the heads-up display indicated reactors at full power. Brains' latest modification, the dark energy impeller field that allowed Thunderbird 2 to hover in mid-air and settle to the ground as lightly as a dragonfly, was charged up and ready. Triggering the launch sequence, he gave Two's instrument panel a loving pat.

"Okay, Big Girl," he told her softly, as systems blinked on and the secondary engines screamed to full life beneath him. "Let's go save the day."

The fake palm trees- Penelope preferred the term 'faux foliage'- bent away on either side of the runway, providing clearance for Thunderbird 2's stubby, forward swept wings. She rolled slowly out of her hangar as Virgil throttled up, for all the world like some massive prehistoric beast climbing from its lair. At the end of the launch ramp she came to a booming halt, seemed to gather herself. Now the ramp began tilting upward. Strapped into the pilot's seat, Virgil watched the horizon drop out of sight as runway and ocean were replaced by cloud-flecked blue skies. After a moment, the motion ceased. Throttling all the way forward, he pulled sharply back on the yoke. Two mighty engines, equivalent in power to old-style Saturn Five rockets, woke with an earth-shaking roar. Seconds later, Thunderbird 2 lunged into the sky.

In the cockpit, Virgil was pressed back against his seat by what felt like an invisible dump truck. Suddenly, breathing had become an adventure. Finally, the altimeter indicated a safe altitude, and he was able to level off and throttle back a bit, easing the pressure on his chest. Peace and well-being enveloped him as Virgil banked her gradually around toward Europe. Short of a good trout stream in the Grand Tetons, there was nowhere he'd rather have been than piloting Thunderbird 2.

Flipping the comm switch, Virgil called over, "John, Scott, we're away. Let you know what I find when we get there."

Scott, facing yet another delay (his pre-flight had revealed a clogged fuel line), muttered something unintelligible in a slightly strangled voice. John came over loud and clear, though.

"Right, Virgil. Make best speed for Europe, but watch out for the North Atlantic war games. I'd give the area a wide berth, just in case. Touchy trigger fingers over there, this time of year."

"Got it, John. Will avoid. Thanks for the heads-up."

A short time later, many hundreds of miles and several time zones away, Gordon slammed his locker shut and thudded down upon a polished wooden bench, gazing incredulously at his wrist comm.

"You're jokin'!" He burst out, running an agitated hand through his damp auburn hair. "Brains, I just _got _here! I'm on th' ruddy swim team, I was late showin' up as it is, and the Olympics 're less than six months off!"

The transmitted Brains tugged at his tiny lower lip, then fiddled nervously with the unevenly cropped hair at his right temple.

"I...ah, I know, G-Gordon, but he...ah, he wants you b-back. Now."

Gordon shut his eyes briefly, opened them again, scowling. "This is it. This is what an aneurysm feels like!" Then, "you're _sure _he said twenty-four hours?!"

"Ah...yes... I'm, ah... I'm pretty sure, Gordon. B-but if you think you're, ah... you're really going to b-burst a blood vessel, perhaps you should l-lie down and th-think calming thoughts."

"Figure of speech," Gordon growled back, hurling a wadded towel across the locker room. "Besides, all I want t' think about now is stranglin' my damn brother!"

Gordon was ordinarily a friendly, high-spirited sort, but he could be volatile when prodded too far. This was one of those times.

At sixteen years old, Gordon was the shortest of the Tracy brothers, but a powerhouse, nevertheless. Pound for pound, he was stronger than anyone but Virgil, four years his senior. He was an Olympic class athlete, one of the fastest swimmers in the world, and a skilled rugby player, life guard and rescue diver, as well.

In appearance, he differed markedly from his brothers. His hair, streaked red-gold by sun and chlorine, was shorn to an efficient swimming length just now, though he usually let it grow longer between seasons. He had a high cheek-boned face with a nose that gave evidence of having been broken a time or two. His eyes were hazel rather than blue or brown, and as thickly lashed as John's. In short, Gordon possessed a head-turning combination of features that he'd never been able to regard as attractive. Around girls, then, he either clowned and showed off, or became confused and shy, depending on how fair the young lady, and how much her opinion mattered. Right now, though, women were not, for a wonder, foremost in his thoughts. All he could focus on was gold... the Olympic variety. Still, family first. Always.

"Right," he sighed at last. "I'll be there as soon as I c'n come up with an excuse n' sign out. And tell 'Rocket-Man' for me that he can go..." Seeing Brains' transmitted eyebrows rise nearly into his projected hairline, Gordon mumbled, "...Never mind. I'm on m' way. Later."

Surging to his feet with a cranky exhalation, Gordon tapped off the comm, converting it back into a fancy sports watch.

"Hmm...," he considered, glancing at the time. "Twenty -four hours... I s'pose I've time for a couple more laps. Think better in the pool, anyway."

Retrieving the towel, Gordon headed back out through the swinging doors, silently trying out various excuses for plausibility and pathos. No good, any of them. Shaking his head a little, he groaned aloud,

"Coach is gonna kill me. I'll be booted off the team this time, for certain...!"


	3. Chapter 3 Macedonia

_Everything starts to go wrong at once, in a big way... self evident, I know, but these are not my characters, and I place no claims except for deep and abiding fondness._

3

It was a snowy morning in Macedonia, overcast and bitterly cold. The Citizens' Victory copper mine, recently shut down for health reasons, crouched like a rusting beast amid mountainous heaps of shattered rock and a few stunted trees. A sluggish river bubbled and stank as it oozed past the old mine complex, too polluted to freeze.

Holding her breath, Cindy experimented with several different positions, trying to find a spot where the light hit her properly... and the wind didn't. Fanged and clawed with bits of gritty, reeking ice, the wind seemed to slice right through her insulated, 'all weather' coverall. Still, cold was alright, as long as her hair didn't blow about too much, or wind-tears wash away her carefully applied eye-makeup. Trying to still her chattering teeth, Cindy asked Abe, her cameraman,

"How's this? Can you s-see the building behind me? I want to be sure and get a shot of the landing, too. How 'bout it?"

The skinny red-head nodded absently, fiddling with the computerized touch pad controls of his shoulder mounted camera. One way or another, they had to start broadcasting, preferably before a rival news team did. She was far from alone in the snow that frigid morning. Surrounded by fellow news hounds, was more like it.

Rumor had it that International Rescue were on their way, and maybe, just maybe, if the gods of journalism smiled down upon them, she and Abe might get a swift, coveted shot of the Thunderbird craft. As that would cover everything- cold, discomfort and wretched food- with fame and bragging rights to spare, Cindy was determined to film the landing. It wouldn't be easy. International Rescue were notoriously touchy about being photographed. Too bad for them. Cindy Taylor, WNN's hottest foreign correspondent, had never yet failed to get her story... even if she had to bend the rules a little.

Hearing the rumble of approaching engines at last, Cindy glanced over her shoulder and gave Abe the signal. He nodded, beginning a silent countdown with his free hand. 3...2...1...and...

"Thanks, Peter. As you know, I'm over in Macedonia, about twenty miles from the nearest town..." (Whose name she hadn't yet managed to pronounce) "...Behind me you can see what's left of the 'Citizens Victory' copper mine, where a sudden cave-in has reportedly trapped over fifty men. There's some activity, I think, from the main building... Yes, a group of officials have stepped outside. Needless to say, Peter, they appear very tense, concerned by the tragic events here today. And... oh, my goodness! Abe, swing the camera around! Are you getting this...? International Rescue have arrived on the scene. Folks, we may lose our picture soon, as the Thunderbird craft deploy their protective electro-magnetic field, so I'll try to describe what I'm seeing for you." She took a deep breath, squinted into the stinging wind, and continued. "A gigantic... you can barely grasp the size of this thing, Peter. Looks as weird in the air as a brontosaurus would... As I say, an enormous, green, heavy transport has just appeared over the hills to the west. It seems to be headed this way. It isn't terribly noisy, except for the firing of some sort of... looks like some kind of steering rockets, Peter. It's definitely not producing as much noise as you would expect for something that size, but the air around me feels like it's rippling... or pulsing... like something is pushing at it. Abe, have we still got visual? We have? Good, 'cause here comes another Thunderbird! It's coming straight down from overhead, getting closer by the second... _Rats!_ There goes our picture! I'll keep talking, though."

Abe shrugged philosophically and lowered the camera, giving his energetic partner a wan smile. International Rescue's technology advantage simply could _not_ be overcome. On the other hand, the lovely Cindy Taylor was a popular correspondent with a real gift for animated description. If anyone could turn this disappointing state of affairs into an asset, she could. No doubt Peter Ride, WNN's chief anchorman, had already signaled up a stock photo of Cindy, and was still running her broadcast.

The sudden turbulence created by the second Thunderbird blew snow in fifty directions at once, and wreaked havoc with Cindy's dark hair. Holding it out of her face with one hand, she raised her voice a bit and kept right on determinedly reporting.

"It's some kind of rocket," she called out, "...sleek, fast and powerful. The other one's green, but this one's mostly silver, with a red nose cone. It's emitting some sort of landing gear... three long, slender skids... and settling to the ground beside a jagged ridge about a quarter of a mile away. Peter, can you still hear me?"

Receiving a faint affirmation, Cindy nodded and went on. "The first Thunderbird, the heavy cargo lifter, has already touched down. Now I can see a hatch sliding open in the rocket, not far from the nose... a ladder is descending... (you'd think they'd have something a little more high-tech)... Oops! The other one's begun winching down some kind of one-man deplaning platform. Guess you've gotta save money somehow, even if you are International Rescue. The first pilot is approaching the mine officials on a hover-sled looking thing. Pilot two is still descending. The first guy is..., well, I'll try to describe him for you. He seems tall, and he's wearing that blue coverall uniform of theirs, but I can't see a name tag or other insignia; he's got a jacket on."

The thought flashed through Cindy's head that the young man... and he _was_ young. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? That he was almost impossibly good-looking. "Hollywood", she nick-named him immediately. The other one (tall as well, but with a focused, meditative expression and a bluffly handsome, sun-tanned face), she started thinking of as "Cowboy".

"Pilot one has just reached the waiting miners. They're reaching out; I think they want to shake his hand. And now... Huh? I didn't just... I don't believe... _Omigod! He's down! He's been shot! Two, maybe three times, in the chest, I think! _The waiting men have just shot the pilot of Thunderbird 1! What's..?! This is insane! The second pilot has leapt from the platform and is running over... he's got a weapon... _NO!"_ Cindy was screaming now, "He's been shot in the legs! They've surrounded him! Peter, you won't believe this! It must have been some kind of trap! They've got him down! They've got his weapon away! Omigod... Omigod...! Peter, they're beating and kicking him! I think they're going to kill him...! They're firing at us! They're firing at...!"

And all over the world, people tuned into WNN or one of its affiliates heard shots, screams, then nothing. The view switched with jolting suddenness from Cindy's smiling picture to a visibly shaken Peter Ride. He'd gotten to his feet behind his desk, white-faced and open-mouthed. After a moment, he managed to say,

"Ladies and Gentlemen, you've heard it just now... Something has gone terribly wrong in Macedonia. Two Thunderbird pilots are down, possibly dead, and we can't seem to reach our... to reach Cindy. We..., ah..., after a brief commercial break... we'll be right back.


	4. Chapter 4 Response

4

Up in Thunderbird Five, surrounded by flashing lights and beeping alarm signals, John Tracy stood for a long moment, perfectly still. Ashen as Peter Ride, he felt his insides tighten into an icy knot. There was an iron band around his chest, suddenly, and a white-hot blankness in his mind. Then the spell broke.

Fast as a whip-crack, John hit the emergency comm button, shouting,

"Gordon, Alan: home, _now!_ We have a Code 36, repeat, _Code 36!"_A further slap to the comm button reached Dr. Hackenbacker, who for once neither twitched, fidgeted, nor stammered.

"Brains," John began urgently, "you saw? Get through to Father! I don't _care _how! You designed the system, find a way! I've alerted Alan and Gordon. I'll fill them in, then call Penelope... Brains, we've got to get Scott and Virgil out of there safely, whatever the fallout."

The engineer nodded seriously. "Understood, John. We'll make it happen."

Gordon had completed yet another full lap; his fifteenth, maybe. He'd lost count. The rotten wrist comm had started vibrating again about halfway through his last lap, but he couldn't stop in mid-lane to answer it, even if he'd wanted to.

Reaching the end of the lane, he seized the pool's edge and hoisted himself clear of the water in one smooth, graceful move. He'd a cramp developing in his left calf muscle, so after removing his goggles and toweling off a bit, Gordon decided to walk about, pacing through the vast, domed swimming complex to stretch his knotted muscles. His wrist comm buzzed again, and this time, Gordon answered it. John's face appeared at once, as pale and drawn as though he were bleeding to death. A breezy greeting died on Gordon's lips as John began, in a tense, expressionless monotone, to tell him what had happened."

"...So we need you back here, Gordon, without delay."

"Right. Okay. Call Alan, tell him t' make ready. I'll be out there t' pick him up in an hour or two." Then, "You'll let me know, won't you? If... when you find out... anythin' more? Right, then. Thanks, John. I'm on my way."

The wrist comm cut off again just as someone grabbed his shoulder. Royce Fellows, a tall, bald, black kid with two world records and a sunny personality, gave him a little shake, saying,

"Oy! Gordon! Didn't y' hear the announcement? 400 meter relay in the east pool, five minutes. C'mon!"

"Huh?" Gordon focused on his teammate with real difficulty. "Royce? Look, I can't. I've got t' go. Family emergency. Tell coach... something. I don't care what. I'll be back in, um... I'll try to... Just, never mind! I gotta go!"

And with that, Gordon turned and sped for the locker room, leaving Royce, and the swim team, behind.


	5. Chapter 5: Gathering

_Well, the last one was a little short..._

5

Like everyone else in the brave new world of 2065, Gordon Tracy had an ID chip implanted just below the skin on the back of his left wrist. It transmitted constantly, informing the ubiquitous sensor posts and law enforcement officers of his age, sex, health and location together with his financial, employment and legal status. It would have been a genuine bother but for two things- first, Brains' cleverly designed wrist comms could block the signal at the touch of a button, and second, the chip's systems were hackable, if one was a pro. John had already altered the device's memory so that Gordon had a new destination, an international driver and pilot's license, and was now a lordly eighteen years old.

Getting out of the European Union was easy; flying across the Atlantic and into American air space, simpler still. It was _signing Alan out of Los Angeles Senior High School_ that just about sent Gordon around the bend. It was Alan's third school in as many months, and there Gordon faced a bored fourth year girl with a "not my problem" attitude and a truly diabolical adherence to school policy.

"I'm on the sign out list," he explained again, as patiently as possible, under the circumstances. _"Check... your... computer!"_

"I'm sorry, I need a written notice," the girl declared once more, utterly implacable. "No notice, no student... 'Mr. Tracy'."

"Fine. Give me some paper and I'll write the blasted note myself!"

She shook her head, slowly twirling a strand of fried-blonde hair around one forefinger.

"Sorry. The notice _must_ be sent in advance. And _not _from the comm bank around the corner, either." This last, as an idea had visibly flashed across Gordon's mind. Green eyes narrowing suspiciously, she said, "Are you _sure_ you're eighteen years old!"

For the third time, Gordon held out his left hand, palm down. The desk scanner beeped once, read his altered ID chip, and displayed the results. Again.

"Hmm... Gordon David Tracy," the girl read slowly. "Date of birth: 14 February, 2047. Residence of record... two: Free States of Polynesia and European Union... Known relatives: Jeffery Connal Tracy, Lucinda Sorren Tracy (deceased), Scott Aaron Tracy, John Matthew Tracy, Virgil Edward Tracy and Alan Rivers Tracy."

"There!" Gordon snapped pouncing upon the last name she'd read. "It's all in order! He's my brother, f'r God's sakes. I'm not tryin' t' steal him! Now, I don't mean t' be rude, Miss, but I haven't time f'r anymore of your nonsense. This is an emergency! Just call him up, let me sign him out, and I'll leave you t' stamp y'r forms in peace. Got it?" He pointed at himself. "Sign," (then down the hall) "Brother," (then toward the door) "Out!"

She didn't appreciate the sarcasm. "I'm really, _very sorry,_" the desk girl told him, her sweetness more poisonous than ever, "but now I need _two_ notes. One from you, posted this morning, and another from Alan's..."

"Mum! His mum! That's it!" Slamming a hand down on the office video phone, Gordon said triumphantly, "Call Gennine Rivers, (I've got 'er number, if you haven't) and let me talk t' her!"

Clearly miffed and unwilling, the office troll punched in the number, glaring at Gordon the entire time. Gennine picked up on the second ring. She looked worried, and not just because Alan had merited in-school suspension again, either.

"Gordon! Hi, Sweetie. I kind of thought... I've been watching the news...,"

"Good afternoon, Ms. Rivers," he replied, all politeness, suddenly. "You've heard? Right. I'm tryin' to sign Alan out, but they won't release him to me. Would you please tell the bleached-hair brick wall, over there, that I'm not going t' sell him, or anything!"

Gennine smiled despite herself. She was past her first youth, but still pretty in a delicate, Nordic fashion. Her long hair was ash blonde and straight, parted in the exact center. Her eyes were intensely blue, and rather sad. She and Jeff Tracy had been married once, and although it hadn't lasted, it was clear why Jeff had made the attempt; her resemblance to Lucinda was startling. Gordon knew his birth mother only from family pictures, but Gennine made a comforting stand-in, at times.

Now she said, pulling at one loose, floaty sleeve of her blouse, "Gordon, believe it or not, I'm worried, too. Virgil and Scott _were _my sons for awhile, even if they never much cared to admit it." She sighed deeply. "Honestly, I expected a call before this."

Clearly fighting the urge to cry, Gennine compressed her lips; managed to say firmly, "Yes, you may sign him out. Anita, he has my permission. Call Alan from class now, if you please. But, Gordon...," her voice dropped to a whisper then, and her blue eyes seemed to drill straight into him. "Take care of your brother. I trust you to see that he comes back safe... that all of you do. Okay? Promise?"

Gordon nodded seriously. "Yes, Ma'am. My word on it. I'll bring him back t' you in one piece, or I won't come back m'self. Swear."

"Well," she replied, smiling tremulously, "since I don't like option B, I'm going to hold you to the first part. Look out for him, and for yourself. I love you both."

With an abrupt, emotional wave of her many-ringed hand, Gennine cut off the transmission. Moments later, Alan came bounding around the corner, a ripped-up book bag bouncing on one shoulder.

"Hey, Bro!" He called out, a little breathlessly, "what's up?"

Without another word to the 'watcher-at-the-desk', Gordon turned and headed for the door. He was impatient to be gone, having wasted far too much time already. "I'm signin' you out," he told his grinning brother (Alan had just given the girl a jaunty wave, calling out, "Peace!" and adding a little extra swagger to his walk for the sake of his audience.)

"I can see that! And hey, Man, as always, thanks for springing me! They had me on campus clean-up detail with the custodians... and, _crap_, this is a trashy dang school! They gave me gloves, but still...! Oh, and the essay? Primo! I got an 'A'. You saved my life!"

Alan puffed out his round cheeks and pushed a little tiredly at his own gel-stiffened blond hair. He showed his fourteen years in every attention-seeking fiber of his being; from the loud shirt, to the saggy pants, to the diamond earring.

"Seriously, Man, I can't afford to fail... well, anything! Dad'd bust my butt, and Mom would cry. Really, I don't know which is worse, sometimes... Anyway, what's with the great escape?" Glancing around them, Alan lowered his voice and lifted one eyebrow dramatically. "Has Dad decided to let me go out on a ... _project?"_

Gordon stopped walking just outside the school's scanner-packed entrance.

"You've not heard, then?"

"Um... heard what? You know I have to keep this thing," he flicked a careless finger against his wrist comm, "turned off. If it beeps in school the Dragon Lady'll confiscate it, and I know darn well Brains is getting sick and tired of making me new ones... _What! _Gordon, what is it?"

His older brother and best friend had by this time started walking again, unusually grim. They crossed the parking lot, Alan growing more baffled and annoyed by the moment. Gordon dug beneath his rugby jersey and into his left shorts pocket for the keys. Indicating the back of the yellow jeep with a quick jerk of his thumb, he said,

"Stow y'r kit and get in. I'll explain on the way."

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Gordon started talking. "It's Scott," he said. "He's been..., um... , Someone faked a rescue call and shot him."

Alan's jaw dropped. "Whoa," he breathed, shaking his head. "How bad?"

Gordon shrugged miserably, taking a corner much too fast. "Don't know yet. John's not been able t' make contact f'r hours. There's more." Having to push hard against the concrete in his chest to get the words out, Gordon continued. "They got Virgil, too. Out in Macedonia, somewhere. We're headed back t' the island now t' huddle with John, Brains and TinTin and come up with some kind ofextraction plan."

"Oh, man..., Does Dad know?"

"Brains's been tryin' like mad t' get through to him, but he's at a corporate contracting session, and..."

"Say no more." Alan cupped his chin in one hand and stared without really seeing at the exclusive, palm-lined neighborhood they were racing past. Their father's two gripping passions these days were the corporation, Tracy Aerospace, and International Rescue. As a father... he made a hell of a C.E.O.

The sudden, loud blast of a horn made Alan sit up a little. "Gordon, man, you're speeding! Slow down before you kill us!"

"You worry too much. I know what I'm doin'." Reaching up, Gordon pressed a button on the rearview mirror, half of which instantly became a comm unit. "John!"

"Go ahead, Gordon." Their brother's image flashed up before them, pale and remote. Gordon took a hand off the wheel long enough to indicate his younger sibling.

"Got Alan, and we're headed for Los Angeles International on..., Er... make it... west along Bay Street, yellow Jeep Wrangler."

"Right. I've got you."

"Thanks. Can you give me a heads-up on law enforcement?"

There was a short pause as John glanced aside at another instrument panel. Then,

"Nothing until you reach the interstate, then... about three miles along, there are two police cruisers facing in either direction, hidden among the trees on the median. After that... there's an aircycle officer behind an overpass pylon. That's all I can see until you get to the airport. There, all bets are off. Too much security to risk speeding."

"Got it, John. Thanks again."

With the occasional update from John and his own swift reflexes, Gordon reached the airport in remarkably (not to say dangerously) short time. The Tracys had a number of dedicated parking spots by their own hangar complex. Gordon pulled into the closest space, vaulted from the jeep, and started for one of the hangars, locking up his car with a quick, over-the-shoulder button press.

"Hey," Alan protested, hurrying to keep up. "What about my backpack!"

"Leave it," Gordon told him absently, pressing his left palm against the hangar's scanning pad. "We'll pick it up on the way back."

"What if somebody steals it?"

Gordon glanced at his brother as the hangar access door slid open. "Why would anyone be thick enough t' rifle my car f'r a damn book bag!" He demanded, cutting across the echoing building toward a rather ordinary looking, two-seater, turbo-prop airplane.

"I dunno... It _was_ a pretty good essay. Besides, myIpod and my GameBoy are in there."

"Alan, y' won't be needin' them for a bit, _trust_ me. If they're gone when we get back, you c'n have mine!"

"Okay... but I get your palm pilot and musiccollection, too."

They'd reached the plane by now. Gordon walked around it twice, ticking off the pre-flight checklist on his fingers, like a rosary. Alan keyed open the main hangar doors meanwhile, as his older brother got in, tested a few systems and started her up. He was very surprised, on returning to the plane, to find Gordon in the right seat.

"You're letting _me_ fly out there?"

Gordon looked up from his PDA briefly, saying, "You've forgotten how?"

"NO! No way! I remember everything you showed me, for real!" With a satisfied grunt, Gordon returned to up-loading their flight plan.

"So shut up and fly, then. I need t' concentrate." Usually this meant that Gordon intended to take a quick nap. Most mornings he dragged himself out of bed at 4:30, got in two hours of swimming, went to school, then ended his day with a further two hours of laps before bed time, on top of whatever regular swim team or rugby activities were scheduled. As a result, he was chronically sleep-deprived, always ravenous, and frequently temperamental. He stole naps (and snacks) whenever possible, and was infamous among his brothers for an addiction to caffeine and power bars. This time, though, he really meant to stay awake and work, downloading every scrap of information he could glean from the internet about Macedonia, the Citizens Victory copper mine, and the local terrain.

Privately thrilled to be handed the controls, Alan tried to play it off, cool as though he flew from LA to the island every day. He'd taxied them out of the hangar and over to the end of the runway, asked for and received take-off clearance, and got them into the air before Gordon said a word.

As Alan was about to hit the button that would convert old Tango Bravo 4002 from a battered turbo-prop to one of Brains' doped-up super craft, his brother said,

"I'd call in, first."

"Huh? Oh, yeah..., right. I was just about to do that." Alan felt himself reddening. How could he have forgotten something as simple and basic as keeping under cover?

Touching a button on the instrument panel, Alan cleared his throat. "Um..., John?"

Once again, John's image appeared before them, looking slightly harassed, this time. Alan could just make out a sliver of Hackenbacker's face on the big wall screen behind his space-bound brother.

"Go ahead, Gordon," John snapped out, almost before the screen finished lighting up.

"Ummm..., no. It's me. Alan."

Surprised, John cocked a slender, blond eyebrow. Turning his head a bit to regard Gordon, he said,

_"He's _flying?"

Gordon shrugged. "I'm busy, and Alan c'n use the practice. Where's the issue?"

"Up to you, I suppose, Gordon. But keep an eye on things." By which he meant, 'don't fall asleep'. Alan, however, took John's comment entirely the wrong way. Flushing to the roots of his hair, the youngest Tracy suddenly lofted his middle finger at the screen.

More alert than he looked, Gordon seized Alan's wrist and slammed the offending hand against an arm rest, but not before the gesture registered.

The temperature in the cockpit seemed to drop a good thirty degrees as John leveled an icy stare at his young half-brother.

"Like I said... keep one hand on the controls, Gordon." Then, all business once more, "I've infected LAX tower control for you. Shadowbot is loaded and ready, whenever you make the conversion."

"F.A.B., John," Gordon responded. "Thanks f'r your help. We'll be home in thirty minutes."

"Right. Fly safe."

When the comm screen darkened, Alan sullenly punched in TB 4002's conversion code. About a dozen subtle, lightning quick alterations took place in the engines and fuselage, increasing the little plane's speed and power beyond anything the FAA would have considered legal, or safe. That done, Alan throttled up, still pouting. Simultaneously, the virus John had uploaded into LA's control tower, known as "shadowbot", erased their actual radar signature and replaced it with a nice, slow, casually puttering doppleganger, effectively disguising their true flight path.

As their airspeed leapt from 300 miles per hour to over 950, Gordon turned on his simmering brother.

"Well, that was about bloody stupid! You _want_ them t' hate you!"

"Why not!" Alan exploded. "They do, anyway! And it's _not fair!_ He didn't tell her about any of this when he married her! She didn't ask to be whipped out on them like some kind of evil replicant step-mom! She never wanted to take Lucy's place any more than I wanted to take yours! But do they care! Do they ever freakin' let me forget about it for a second! Heck, no! They _hate _me! _Not one of them would pee on me if I was on fire!"_

Gordon gazed awhile at Alan, a muscle beginning to twitch in one cheek as he fought to keep a straight face

"Well," he said, finally, "John would, after a bit. He'd have t' mull it over first, though."

Still furious, Alan rolled his eyes."Not Scott n' Virgil! They'd just point and laugh!"

"Probably," Gordon chuckled, "...but I'm certain they'd feel badly about it all, later."

"Uh-huh. Sure. So then they'd make up for it by chugging a few beers and hosing down the ashes!"

Gordon had given up the fight to remain serious.Giving his brother an affectionate shove, he said,

"No panic, Alan. I'd pee on you, any day."

Alan grinned at him. "Thanks, man. Nice to know you're there for me. By the way," as a sudden question occurred to him, "What excuse did you give my school?"

"Oh," Gordon responded carelessly, "I told 'em your uncle died."

"Again? That's what you said last month. I must have a butt-load of uncles...,"

"...Barely clingin' t' life, the lot of 'em."

Their silliness continued for a bit, until Gordon recalled why they were headed home in the first place. Barely audible over the engine noise, he murmured, "I hope Virgil and Scott are alright..., Please, God, let 'em still be alive when we get there."

Alan punched him lightly on the shoulder, saying, "Buck up, Bro. The famous Tracy luck hasn't failed us yet, has it?"

Gordon shook his head, managing a crooked little smile.

"Right. Here's hoping, then."


	6. Chapter 6: Plan of Action

_So far, if you've been nipping in and out, Scott got himself shot during a faked mining emergency, and Virgil is missing,condition unknown. The rest of the family has gathered at the island to formulate a plan of action. Once again, extremely AU, for which I tender my sincerest apologies, but that's the way it wrote itself... I lay no claim to the characters or situations, but aknowledge the help and suggestions of many good friends, with whom I share a love of the Tracy boys. _

6

Kyrano was waiting at the airstrip to pick them up, standing by the door of Virgil's green humvee with an expression that somehow telegraphed compassion, welcome and concern at one and the same time.

"Mr. Gordon, Mr. Alan," he greeted the boys, bowing as they cut off the engines and sprang to the tarmac. "Welcome home. Mr. Hackenbacker is expecting you."

"Thanks, Kyrano," Gordon replied, briefly shaking the manservant's hand. "Any word yet from Dad?"

"Non, Mr. Gordon. I am most sorry, Sir. Your father remains, with the other corporate and military heads, within the secure confines of the New York City meeting room. The contracts being settled are of great importance to the business, and there has been much fear of espionage."

In other words, no luck. Nodding glumly, Gordon climbed into the passenger's seat. It had been worth asking, anyway. As the humvee snaked up the twisting access road toward the mansion, Gordon turned round in his seat, caught Alan's eye, and tugged discreetly at his own left earlobe.

"Oh, yeah, right! Almost forgot...!" Alan muttered, fumbling at the back of his diamond earring. Father might not be home, but obvious jewelry on one of his sons was never permitted, no matter the circumstances, and somehow or other, he _would_ have found out. Relieved to have dodged a major bullet, Alan removed the earring and dropped it into his pocket.

Back at the house, TinTin greeted them both with tight hugs and quick, nervous kisses.

"Oh, Alan, Gordon, I'm so glad you've come home! Now we can do something to save them! I've been so worried...! I thought... what if someone attacked you, as well?" Her fingernails were ragged and bloody, bitten down to the quick, and her pretty face streaked with tears.

The boys did their best to comfort their friend, trying to seem stronger than they felt, for her sake.

"No panic, Angel," Gordon told her, giving TinTin's trembling shoulder a little squeeze. "We've got this."

"Yeah," Alan added, slipping an arm around her waist. "With the three of us together again, Scott and Virgil are as good as home. "Count on it."

Reunion completed, they hurried upstairs to the office, talking a hundred miles an hour. When they got there, Brains was clicking his way through map after computerized map, pausing now and again to make notes, or address a comment to John, still as far away as the space station, and as close as his comm portrait.

"I... ah, I think your p-plan has... ah, a real chance of suc-success," Brains was saying to John, as Gordon, Alan, TinTin and Kyrano entered the room. Then, "They... ah, they're h-here! G-glad you..., ah... you could make it. I'm... I'm very sorry about wh-what's happened, um... t-to the others, but I th-think w-we may now be able t- to ah... pull off a r-rescue."

Brains was clearly agitated again, fiddling with his glasses, his collar, his pen and anything else that his nervous hands came into contact with.

"Sorry t' take so long, Brains," Gordon responded, venturing a handshake. Not necessarily a safe proposition, as Brains always seemed to be breaking pens; permanent markers, usually. Still, like TinTin, Kyrano, Parker and Lady Penelope, Brains was considered family, and worth the risk of ink-spotted hands. This time, though, Gordon escaped unscathed. "What's the plan?" He asked.

"W- well...,"

A sudden noise cut Brains off in mid-sentence. The wide screen TV, tuned still to WNN, gave a long, loud, wavering beep. An attention signal. Everyone whipped around and stared, puzzled by the strangely dark screen. At first nothing happened, which was more surprising still. In that day and age, there was no such thing as dead air time, ever. Then, with burst of harsh static, an image formed. A man's face stared out of the screen at them; arrogant, cold and hard. He seemed neither old nor young, with a powerful body, a clean-shaven scalp and an expression suggestive of twisted, predatory cruelty. He seemed to be wearing some sort of ornate, brocaded robe although, as only his head and torso were in the picture, most of his costume remained unseen.

With all eyes focused on the television, nobody noticed when Kyrano went suddenly pale and anguished. Hugging himself, the old servant retreated to the far corner of the room, as though seeking shelter from the televised image before him.

The figure smiled thinly, made an amused little half-bow, and began speaking in a low, rumbling voice.

"Ladies and Gentlemen... International Rescue... if you will indulge a brief interruption? This broadcast is occurring simultaneously on all channels, in all nations the world over, so do not bother reaching for the remote. What I have to say is important, and will not occupy much of your time."

Shifting his stance slightly, the brocade-draped figure continued.

"I am a man of business. My name doesn't matter, but if labels bring you comfort, you may refer to me as 'The Hood'. A small... _venture_ ... of mine has met with success this day, and I am ready to offer up several items to those buyers with the resources to purchase them." His smile widened slowly, as though he knew the impact that his words were having, and savored every blow. "I am in possession now of Thunderbirds 1 and 2. They have been rigged, inside and out, with powerful explosives triggered to instantly incinerate anyone who attempts to tamper with them, destroying, of course, the craft themselves. This would be a pity, as I am offering the Thunderbird craft for sale to the highest bidder, be it nation or individual. Also, lest you think me a poor merchant, with so little to display...,"

On a sudden, horrible notion, Gordon seized Alan's arm and whispered urgently,

"Grandmother! Alan, she's _always _watchin' TV! F'r the love of Heaven, distract her before...," He didn't..._ couldn't..._ finish the thought. Alan nodded wildly and bolted from the room, shouting,

"Grandma! Hey, Grandma! Where are you?! I need something to eat! I'm _starving!"_

Behind him, TinTin, Gordon, Brains and Kyrano went very still; frozen with apprehension. Gloatingly, The Hood proceeded.

"For International Rescue, a special offering..." At a slight gesture from the speaker, the camera pulled back, revealing something... some_one..._ on the ground before him. With a muffled cry, TinTin turned and buried her face against Gordon's shoulder.

Virgil lay there, broken and bloody, his arms bound savagely tight behind his back. The Hood prodded his unconscious captive with a booted foot, still smiling.

"One of your pilots has come into my possession, as well. A bit damaged, perhaps, but not yet beyond repair. He may be redeemed for the sum of $500 billion, American, to be deposited by 12:00 PM, Greenwich Mean Time, tomorrow. Note the following account number, as I shall not repeat it."

A long string of numbers followed, which Brains instantly memorized. Looking deeply pleased with himself, The Hood added,

"I cannot promise my prospective buyers that he will remain on the market past 12pm tomorrow. He is in rather poor condition, and my patience is not endless. So, then, I look forward shortly to receiving bids on the aircraft, and a ransom for the remaining pilot. Good day."

An instant later, their enemy vanished from the screen. Nobody spoke for several minutes. Gordon, breathing as though he'd just finished the 400-meter free style, had had to fight the mad urge to hurl himself at the TV. TinTin was sobbing silently, clutching at him as though he had some kind of power to make everything right again.

"Gordon...," she almost begged, "_pourquoi?! _Why would anyone do this?"

"Don't know," her friend growled. "Money, I guess. Not that it matters. The only thing the bastard's getting from me is a broken neck!"

Pulling away just a bit, TinTin said hesitantly, "I didn't... I couldn't see S-Scott, Gordon. Do you think...?" She'd begun crying again in great hiccuping sobs, her shoulders shaking.

Forcing himself out of a truly murderous mood, Gordon patted the girl's back, murmured into her hair,

"There now. Calm down, Angel. Knowin' Scott, he's probably out in the forest somewhere, buildin' himself an assault vehicle out of rocks n' wood. By the time we get there, he'll have saved Virgil himself, and be wonderin' what kept us. Bet on it."

Alan wandered into the room, eyes like dinner plates. He said, his voice cracking slightly,

"Grandma was asleep in her chair. I watched on her TV with the sound turned down. What... what're we gonna do?"

John's portrait comm had faded back into an ordinary picture during the broadcast. Now it came to life again, at about the same time that Lady Penelope's portrait began glowing. He surprised everyone, himself included, probably, by taking charge immediately.

"Brains, prepare Thunderbird 3 for a wilderness landing. You'll need the electronic bomb diffusing unit, a dark van or SUV of some sort, and a portable medical set-up. Also, weapons, ammunition and cold-weather cammo gear. Put together some kind of protective lotion for Gordon, while you're at it. It'll be your job to defuse and retake Thunderbirds 1 and 2."

"Ah..., understood, John. I'll, ah..., I'll... get s-started right away."

"Right. Gordon, get your dive gear together; whatever you've got that's damn well insulated. You're getting wet, and the water's toxic. You'll need an underwater light with a couple of spare batteries, a laminated map of the mine and river system, your side arm, a uniform and some cutting tools. You're going in from the river. Straight up recon and rescue. Avoid all hostile contacts and stay out of sight until you find Virgil and Scott. Then be prepared to defend them, with deadly force if necessary, until help arrives."

"Got it, John. Will do."

Now John's attention shifted, his expression going from matter-of-fact to uncomfortable in seconds.

"Alan, TinTin, I wish I had another choice, but you're desperately needed, and..."

"John," Alan told him firmly, speaking for both himself and the girl, "we can handle it. Tell us what to do."

"Good man. Brains will provide your kit; weapons, clothing and transportation. I'll arrange all the diversions I can, but I'll need you to infiltrate the mining complex from the landward side and reinforce Gordon. Your job is the same as his: find Scott and Virgil, and stay alive until help gets there. You'll have to move fast, because Gordon will probably get to them first, but can't carry much in the way of weaponry. He's going to need back up, ASAP."

Giving TinTin's hand a little squeeze, Alan replied stoutly, "Piece of cake, Dude. They'll never know what hit 'em."

Another voice broke in then..., cool, refined and elegantly British.

"Good evening, John, Darling..., Everyone."

It was Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, exquisitely beautiful, as always, in a mint-green couture ensemble and a sleek up-do. Her calm, pleasant manner gave not the slightest hint of concern or trouble. Anyone would have thought that she'd called to arrange an afternoon of cards and conversation back at the estate. Blonde and blue-eyed, with a porcelain complexion and a perfect figure, she seemed the exact, delicate opposite of what she actually was; a highly trained and deadly dangerous secret operative. With swan-like serenity she continued,

"I'm afraid I couldn't help overhearing your conversation (I _do_ hope you'll forgive my curiosity... there's a dear...), and I had wondered if perhaps, as I'll be traveling through the region on ski holiday, you'd like me to reroute? Just nip down, shall I, join the rest, and make a bit of a foreign excursion?"

John was well accustomed to Penelope's airy speech patterns, and had no difficulty divining her actual intent.

"Thanks, Penny," he replied with a very faint smile. " I'd really appreciate that. I'll be back in touch to discuss the specifics in a moment, but first I have to call in a few favors. With your permission...?"

"F.A.B., John. Always a pleasure chatting with you, and I _do _hope we see one another again, soon."


	7. Chapter 7: Deployment

_So far, Virgil is a prisoner, and Scott has been shot during a mission in Macedonia. John is coordinating the recovery effore from Thunderbird 5. Brains, Penelope, Gordon, Alan and TinTin are on the way._

7

They were geared up and ready to go in less than two hours, once a plan of action had been decided upon. Thunderbird 3 wasn't the ideal choice for this mission- its specialty was space station service and resupply- but 3 could manage an awkward tail fin landing in a pinch, when no other 'Bird was available.

Alan and Brains would pilot. As International Rescue's chief engineer, Hackenbacker knew each of the Thunderbirds inside and out, and Alan had logged a little co-piloting flight time with Scott. He could point her in the right direction and make her go, anyway. Brains would handle the actual take-off and landing.

TinTin and Gordon would be passengers during the flight, held in reserve until needed for the mission. They remained in the lower cabin (jokingly referred to as "The Lounge" for its excruciating noise and vibration levels). There Gordon obsessively went over and over every detail and item of his dive gear, while TinTin practiced a few pertinent phrases in Macedonian (such as "stop", "put your hands up" and "move and your dead").

When the order came to strap in, the two got into their seats, set them back into launch position, and lay there tensely waiting out the countdown.

It began with a thin whistling noise that gradually grew in volume to a hornets' nest hum, then a subterranean rumble. The spaceship began to shake, then to lift, rising like a crimson spear-point from the mansion's lofty round house. Driven by a trio of rocket engines and a powerful impeller field, she shot into the night sky on a plume of white-hot flame. In less than thirty seconds the island was invisibly far behind, a mere speck in the vast Pacific.

'Shadowbot' covered their tracks, removing any sign of Thunderbird 3's flight path from radar tracking systems all over the Pacific rim. When the curve of the earth became visible through the forward window, Brains made a minor course adjustment and handed the controls over to Alan.

"J-just, ah... just keep to the flight plan and w-watch the scanners. If you, ah... if you have any questions, um..., I'll b-be down in the l-lounge briefing G-Gordon. Alright, Alan?"

The youngest Tracy nodded dispiritedly. "Sure thing, Brains. I know the drill; twiddle my thumbs and don't touch anything. If anything up here beeps, flashes or screams, yell for John. I can handle the excitement. Really."

Brains gave him a sympathetic smile.

"D-don't fret, Alan. Y-your chance will come, as it, ah..., as it has f-for all of us. R-remind me, s-sometime, to, ah... to tell you h-how Scott d-did, first t-time out."

Despite himself, Alan had to grin.

"That good, huh?" He prodded mischievously.

Brains shook his head, chuckling a little.

"Utter, ah..., b-blasted chaos, actually. M-miracle he made it b-back with, ah..., with a whole s-skin and m-most of a ship."

"Heh!" Alan gloated, as Brains took the lift down to the lounge. "Mr. Perfect, huh? Just wait'll I get all the details! Ol' Scotty-boy won't be able to find a deep enough hole!"

When the lift deposited him in the lounge, "Hackenbacker" walked over to Gordon, nearly tripping over a deck seam in his nervous haste. TinTin reached out and helped him to steady himself, earning a quick, flustered smile in the process.

"G-Gordon," Brains began, after regaining his equilibrium. "Th-this is for, ah..., for you."

Moving forward again, he held out a large squeeze tube filled with greenish gel. A bit had oozed past the cap and dribbled onto one ink-stained cuff. It smelled dreadful; like a truly stomach-turning combination of cough medicine, tobacco juice, bug spray and boiled cabbage.

Gordon recoiled. Although untidy at times, he was never less than fastidious in his personal habits, and the stuff genuinely reeked. Leveling a forefinger at Brains, he snapped,

"No! You c'n turn y'rself right around an' head back t' the lab with that crap, 'cause I'm _not_ putting it on!"

"V-very well," Brains replied testily. "And your skin w-will peel off in, ah..., in bloody strips, and you'll d-die writhing in a-agony. S-suit yourself."

Glaring rebelliously, Gordon snatched the tube away from the waiting engineer.

"How much?!" He demanded, finally.

"A-all of it," said Brains.

"Just the exposed...?"

_"Everywhere,"_ Brains corrected firmly. "C-cover every bit of f-flesh th-that you've, ah..., you've g-grown attached t-to. Everything e-else is, ah..., is g-going to come off."

"Everywhere...," Gordon repeated, stunned. "But surely not... I mean t' say..., won't the wet suit provide enough... y' know... protection?"

"G-Gordon!" Brains snapped impatiently, "Focus! I'm, ah..., I'm not t-trying to embarrass or o-offend you! I s-said _everywhere!_ D-don't, ah..., don't miss a millimeter, or y-you'll be sorry in w-ways I, ah..., I can't begin to d-describe." Glancing at his wrist watch, Hackenbacker added, "We'll, ah..., we'll be over M-Macedonia in j-just a few more minutes. G-get your gear together and, ah..., and get ready to m-move."

"Right." Shoulders sagging, Gordon drifted over to his dive bag and deposited the slimy tube in a mesh pocket. "Everywhere...!"


	8. Chapter 8: A rescue

_...Further developments in Macedonia, with Scott, and a reporter._

8

Cindy had lain in the snow, too terrified to move, all that day. At first there were piteous moans and pleas from the people around her, but these had begun to fail now, vanishing with the slight warmth of the sun as one by one the people nearby bled to death, or froze. In shock, Cindy forced herself not react, or call out. Despite her fear, the bitter chill, and a burning shoulder wound, she held as still as a corpse, praying that she'd make it to nightfall, and the cover of darkness.

More than once, a laughing "miner" had stepped out to smoke with his comrades and take a few pot-shots at the wounded and dying who littered the snowy ground. Biting her lip till it bled, Cindy held perfectly still. She'd had some protection, for Abe's slender body lay partly covering hers. He'd shoved her to the ground when the shooting began, taking the deadly bullet meant for her. Cindy owed him her life and could do nothing but lie there, helpless, as he slowly grew cold and still.

Somehow, throughout that long, frigid, miserable day, Cindy stayed alive. Abe's last act had been to defend her, and though it would have been easier to stay down and let herself drift away, Cindy had no intention of wasting his gift. But what was she to do? How could she save herself? Some notion came that she might head away from the mine as soon as night fell, follow the river and make for the nearest town. But when darkness finally arrived she had to abandon any hope of walking to safety. It was far too cold. Already chilled clear through, she'd have died of exposure before she reached the hills. That wasn't the only reason, though. Faint at first, and then bit by bit a little clearer, she heard someone moving. Somewhere out in the snow, between Cindy and the mine complex, someone was still alive. He was confused, though, Cindy decided; so turned-around or delirious that he was actually headed _toward_ the mine office, where he would certainly be killed.

Cindy considered for an instant, then decided that her best chance of survival was to take temporary shelter back in the news van and wait for rescue. Surely somebody... the Marines, the Air Force..., whatever was left of International Rescue... _someone_ would be sent to help? In the meantime the WNN news van was within reach and out of the knife-like wind. She'd be able to hide out there, if the idiot scraping toward the gunmen's hideout didn't prod them into shooting her first. She had to get to him, convince him somehow to shut up and turn around.

Stifling a moan, Cindy forced herself onto her hands and knees, letting Abe'scold body slide off into the snow. Everything, everywhere hurt, and the acrid stench of the river made her gasp. Bidding her cameraman farewell with a last, silent touch, Cindy got to her feet. She started forward at a crouched, lurching run, nearly falling a dozen times.

There were four squares of light in the building before her, their yellow gleam reflecting dimly off the wind-sculpted snow. These and a slim crescent moon were all the illumination there was. Cindy kept her eyes on the building, ready to throw herself flat if a face appeared in one of those threatening windows.

Everything sounded preternaturally loud to her; the crunch of her feet in the snow, an occasional sharp wind-gust, her own labored breathing, and, most alarmingly, a sudden burst of wild laughter from the mine office.

_'Maybe they're getting drunk,' _Cindy thought to herself, panting great clouds of white vapor, _'Maybe they're so busy patting themselves on the back that they won't even notice m...'_

She nearly tripped over something in the snow. No, scratch that... some_one. _It was the mysterious survivor. He was creeping slowly forward, one arm pressed tight across his chest, the other dragging him along. Badly wounded, he moved in short bursts, leaving dark stains in the snow at every pause.

Throwing herself down beside him, Cindy realized who he was when she heard what he was saying.

"S' okay, Virge... m' coming. S' okay... hang on..." Then, after a short pause for breath, "Keep going. Gotta keep... going."

It was the International Rescue pilot, Hollywood. He'd survived the attack.

"Hey!" Cindy whispered , seizing the pilot's shoulder. "Hollywood, you're going the wrong way! They'll see you! Come on, come with me!" Keeping a wary eye on the building, she added, "I know where we can hide!"

But he pulled away when Cindy tried to drag his good arm across her shoulders. Rolling onto his back, the pilot refused to be moved.

"No..," he shook his head, gasping a little. "My... brother... they've got my brother in there. I've got... got to help him..."

Cindy was growing desperate.

"Listen to me, Hollywood!" She hissed, packing snow against his oozing bullet wounds, "you're not helping anybody like this! What are you going to do? Crawl up to the door and ask politely to be let in? They'll kill you, and me, _and_ your brother! Now, come on! Come with me to shelter, at least for the night, and we'll think of something in the morning! Okay? Please? I don't want to die out here!" At that point, Cindy would have promised him anything. She was cold and afraid, numb with terror that they'd be heard. "Please, please, _please?!"_

A sort of muddled comprehension came into his eyes. "Morning...?" he asked her.

"Morning. I swear! We'll find a way to call for help. The Marines, the Navy, the Boy Scouts... everything! Just, please, let's go!"

And this time, he went; letting Cindy pull him upright and even managing to support most of his own weight as they staggered toward WNN's sleek news van. It had begun to snow by the time they reached the locked vehicle, hiding their blood-splotched prints. She had to fumble a bit for the keys, her numbed fingers making it difficult to search, but at length Cindy found them in an outside hip pocket, and not a moment too soon. The pilot was shuddering with fatigue, barely able to keep his feet. Together they wrestled the door open. Ice had formed around the hinges and locking mechanism, and had to be painstakingly chipped away.

"Hurry!" Cindy ordered, "Inside!" Helping him through the half-open door, Cindy Taylor followed her wounded companion into the shelter of the van, then gently, quietly, slid shut the door.


	9. Chapter 9: Temporary Shelter

_Whatever happened to Virgil? And an unexpected medical procedure.With thanks and appreciation to cat lovers and sailing fans everywhere. _

9

Virgil lay on an icy concrete floor within the tight confines of his makeshift cage. He wasn't in pain, mostly... until he moved. Then, things ground together inside, setting off crimson agony and waves of clutching nausea. Each shaky breath brought a fresh stab from his ribs, filling his chest with fire.

He knew, though, that they were coming for him. Dad, John, Gordon... even Alan. They'd make it, if they had to walk every step of the way. No..., his real worry was Scott. The thought that his brother was out there somewhere, alone and wounded, maybe dying, was far more painful than the beating had been. Time and again he'd tried frantically to get to his feet, meaning to batter a way through the wired-together iron cage. But his broken legs wouldn't hold him and his numb, bound arms might as well not even have been there. So, desperately as he wanted to help Scott, Virgil could only lie there and wait for a miracle. He preferred to wait elsewhere, though. His body might be trapped, but his mind was free to wander, taking him out of that wretched prison and back to Wyoming.

In a sort of waking half-dream, Virgil found himself standing knee-deep in the swift flowing waters of a cold, rocky creek somewhere out in the Bridger-Teton Wilderness. He had his best fly rod out, and was contentedly casting for cut-throat trout. Catching a little more than usual, too... it _was_ a dream, after all.

The line snaked out with a rushing hiss, dropping the fly, one of the green fuzzy guys that Grandad had first shown him how to tie, right over a shaded hollow. He jerked the rod a bit, causing the fly to skip and dance across the water, looking (hopefully) succulent and suicidal. It worked. A big trout rose to the bait. Virgil set the hook with a practiced flick of his wrist, then began reeling in his prize.

Something bothered him, though, breaking his concentration and nearly losing him his cutty. Not the llamas... he could hear them gurgling and complaining to themselves back at the campsite. Not grizzlies... that's what the llamas were for. That, and the biggest rifle he could tote. The weather was beautiful; air cool and sharp, wind roaring through the lodge pole pines with a noise like distant surf. Troubled, he looked up. Far above him, snow gleamed on the jagged mountain peaks, changing color with the angle of the sun. It was almost too beautiful for words.

Still... there was something... something important. As he netted and landed the trout, Virgil pondered, deciding finally that he was waiting for someone. That was it.

Good thing, too. Although Virgil never minded being alone, everything but elk hunting was better with a friend.

Satisfied, he put the shimmering cut-throat in a lidded basket, secured his fly rod, and headed back to camp for a date with a pan, some butter, a little corn meal, and the world's best breakfast.

Meanwhile, Cindy pulled everything she could find- coats, jackets, survival blankets and cushions- off the van's seats and onto the floor. She wanted to be as low as possible and out of direct window view in the event that someone came poking around in the night. The rest of her preparations were a little haphazard, just as they occurred to her. She couldn't simply drive off; all of the gas had leaked away through what must have been dozens of bullet holes. The battery was nearly dead, as well. It looked, Cindy sighed to herself, like they might be there for awhile. Fortunately, the van was set up with long road trips in mind. It featured a small food cabinet and benches as well as plenty of broadcast gear. It was liveable, barely.

The pilot was growing visibly weaker. Their trek through the snow had just about finished him. As Cindy helped him to stretch out on the makeshift bed, she thought,

_'Got to get those wounds cleaned up and bandaged before he_ _makes up his mind to bleed to death...!'_

"Okay, Hollywood," she said, still keeping to a whisper, just in case, "let's have a look at..."

"Scott," he corrected her, in a barely audible mumble. "My name's Scott."

"Alright. Scott it is, then. I'm..."

"Cindy Taylor... WNN. 'Your eye on the world'." He smiled just a little, at her surprised expression. "...watch a lot of TV... better than Ned Cook."

"Well... thanks," Cindy replied, trying to arrange some kind of pillow. "About the Ned Cook thing, I mean. He may get better ratings, but he's got a big mouth, and a bigger ego, and he makes up half the stuff he reports on. Takes too many stupid risks, too. One of these days, remember I said this, something's going to happen to that blowhard. Not that I'm ill wishing him, or anything."

Returning to the task at hand, Cindy set about examining the pilot's wounds. He was feverish, she noted worriedly; not a good sign. Unzipping the totally inadequate bomber jacket he'd worn for warmth, Cindy saw that only one bullet had actually penetrated his chest. It had hit high on the right side, just below the collar bone. The other two had struck his right arm. Gloveless and apparently cold, he'd walked over to the would-be assassins with his arms folded across his chest and his hands tucked into the opposite jacket sleeves. Weird, she thought, opening up his blood-stained coverall; the wrong clothing had actually saved the guy's life.

"You'd better hang onto this jacket, Scott," she told him, more for the comfort of talking than because she thought he was listening. "...It's lucky. Too bad about your watch, though." That, too, had been hit.

Cindy wasn't a doctor or an EMT, but it seemed best to her not to go digging after the bullets. Clean and bandage, stop the bleeding, and wait for the pros. That much, she could do.

There was a first aid kit in the van; well-stocked, thanks to Abe. She'd never bothered with the thing unless one of them needed a band-aid. Now, though... well, once more Abe Lieberson's clear thinking was proving invaluable.

"Thanks again, Abe," she murmured softly, wishing him peace. "You're a lifesaver."

When she'd figured out what she was doing, Cindy gently shook her patient awake.

"Hey, Hol... Scott. I'm going to put some of this stuff on the bullet holes and swab them out a little, then I'm going to put in some gauze and try to bandage you up. Okay?"

Scott blinked, then replied blurrily, "Why wake me up to tell me about it? I couldn' stop you if I tried..."

Wincing, Cindy indicated a sloppy bandage on her own shoulder.

"Because it hurts. Trust me, I tried it out on myself, first. I didn't want you to wake up yelling, and maybe give us away."

Scott nodded. "Good thinking," he told her.

"Yeah, well..." Cindy put a gauze pad over the mouth of the antiseptic bottle and gave it a vigorous shake. "...it's not all to my credit, really. It's... it was Abe, my cameraman, who thought to pack all this stuff. He saved my life out there, and now I can't even pay him back."

She decided to start on an arm wound, first. Less dangerous area. As she tipped a bit of the antiseptic into the wound, then began dabbing timidly at the resulting bloody froth, Scott made a sound like he'd been punched.

"Yup," he managed to say, between gritted teeth. "Hurts!"His good hand clutched at the blanket, white-knuckle tight. Needing to keep talking, he said,

"I-if Abe saved you... and then you saved me... that pays back... pays back the debt, doesn't it?"

Cindy gave him a quick smile. "Yeah, maybe it does. I didn't think of it that way. Thank you, Scott."

Continuing to work, Cindy got him patched up as best she could, then put the first aid kit under his rigged-up pillow. The temperature inside the van was dropping steadily and she didn't know whether or not the stuff in the kit would survive being frozen. Then, having seen to the immediate issues, Cindy realized that she had an enormous, thudding headache. Tension, probably, and hunger. There was aspirin in her purse, but she needed something to wash it down with... Spotting a thermos up front between the seats, Cindy crawled forward and got it. She nervously sampled the contents back at the blanket nest.

"Hey!" She said, so pitifully grateful for good news that she just about cried. "It's coffee! And it's almost nearly warm!"

Scott made an odd noise. At first she thought he was choking, but then he said,

"Don't... make me laugh,,, please, ...hurts too much."

Cindy chuckled a little as she raised his head for a drink of the heavenly beverage.

"That's different," she said. "Usually, the reaction is: 'huh?', or... 'I don't get it'."

Scott agreed, saying ruefully, "I gave up trying to be funny a long time ago. No talent."

The coffee, a package of peanut butter crackers and a round of aspirin made up the evening meal, eaten slowly by the faint glow of the van's cigarette lighter. Tomorrow, they promised each other, huddling beneath the blankets, they'd go for help.


	10. Snow Bound

_The rescue party prepares to set off, and Scott fends off an unexpected intrusion._

10

Gordon took the lift up to Thunderbird 3's cockpit. They'd landed at last in the pre-dawn stillness of a forested valley, not far from the river. He'd be setting off in just a bit, but first, he needed to speak with Alan.

He found his brother in the pilot's seat, trying to puzzle his way through a computerized flight log. Without a word, Gordon took the screen and stylus from Alan's hands and began reading through the questions.

"Mileage?" He asked.

"Uh...," Alan leaned over and glanced at the proper gauge. "15,751.3 miles."

"Reactors?"

"Green."

And so on, till the log was complete. That done, Gordon handed it back, saying,

"Listen, Alan; I promised y'r mum that I'd look after you, but we're going t' have to separate f'r a bit, and... I just wanted t' remind you to stay low. Y' know... think before you shoot, and all that."

"Yeah," Alan replied, reaching out so they could tap clenched fists. "You, too. Luck, Man."

Gordon shrugged, throwing himself into the co-pilot's seat.

"You're the one going in through the front. All I've got t' do is swim the 'Rio Crap', over there." Then, "Seriously, though; I know John said t' join up quick, but don't be in too much of a hurry. Take it slow, and stay safe. Well..., safe as y' can, anyway. I'll be alright on my own, f'r a bit."

Alan nodded.

"So, uh... what's plan B?" The youngest Tracy asked uncertainly. "If something goes wrong, I mean?"

"Fall back, find Brains or m'self. We'll call up John an' try something different. Then something else after that, if we have to."

Glancing at his watch, Gordon slapped his hands down suddenly against his knees, and stood up. "Well, time t' get started, I guess. Just, um..." Unable to express himself, he settled for a playful cuff to his brother's head.

"Yeah, okay," Alan responded, short hand for everything he couldn't get out, either.

"See you." Shaking off several tons of concern, Gordon shouldered his dive bag and took the lift back down to the hold.

Switching on Thunderbird 3's protective EM field, Brains, Gordon, TinTin and Allen climbed into the humvee. Gordon was still in his blue International Rescue uniform. The others had changed into grey and white winter cammo and heavy weaponry, nearly doubling their bulk. It was a tight squeeze. The back of the humvee was loaded down with Brains' bomb defusing gear, forcing Alan and TinTin to fit in where they could.

Gordon sat up front in the passenger's seat, mentally rehearsing his route, as Brains drove them down the ramp from Thunderbird 3's cargo hold and out into the snowy forest. The engineer had rigged up UV headlights for the vehicle, and was wearing night vision goggles, meaning to stay invisible for as long as possible.

Driving cautiously, Brains covered the seven miles from their landing site to the river in thirty minutes. There, they were to part company. Gordon would have to swim the rest of the way after donning Brains' protective lotion and getting into his dive gear. The others would proceed through the woods in the humvee.

"W- we'll wait a bit," Hackenbacker offered, cutting off the engine, "t-to ah..., to give y-you some cover w-while you ch-change, Gordon."

"Right, thanks. It _would_ be my luck, wouldn't it, to have a bloody great bear amble by in mid..., um..., smear."

"No problemo, Man," his brother informed him mischievously. "We'd help out... soon's we stopped laughing."

Gordon 'accidently' elbowedAlan in the stomach hard enough to leave him wheezing, then got out. He moved away from the humvee, made certain that he was screened from view by a small copse of trees, took a deep breath, and began.

It was incredibly cold in the ice-locked forest; even more so when all one had on were swim trunks and a slap-dash coat of stinging slime. Worse, the process took a lot longer than he'd expected. By the time the first grey, watery light began probing its way through the trees, Gordon still had half the tube left, and was nowhere near completely covered. Worried about the time, he tried to hurry, and ended up a dripping mess.

"Eewwww!" He heard from behind him, suddenly. "You're slimy... in patches!"

"TinTin!" Gordon roared, whirling to face the sound. "What're you doing out here!"

"Checking on _YOU!_ We've been waiting almost half and hour for the go-ahead, and we got worried! Brains thought I'd be the one least likely to get my jaw broken, in case you were still, um..."

"I get the picture. Thanks. I'm fine. I don't need any help. So if you'll just..."

Exasperated, the girl put her fists on her hips, saying,

"At this rate, you'll be all month! Let me help!"

"NO!"

"I won't look, or at least, if you turn around, you can pretend you don't know that I'm here."

"How can I...! That's the bloody stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

"No... stupid is refusing help when Scott and Virgil are running out of time! Now, quit whining and turn around!"

She had him there. Reluctantly, Gordon did as he was told, wishing himself a thousand miles away. Thankfully, TinTin was efficient, and unembarrassed. Limiting her comments ("This stuff is REALLY disgusting! I've lost my appetite until my senior year in COLLEGE!" And "My hands are burning! What's _in_ this gunk!") she got the job done in under five minutes. "There! As for the rest..."

He leapt sideways, nervous as a cat.

"I'll handle what's left, thanks! Just... um, go over there and fetch my gear, won't you?"

TinTin stepped over to the trees, walking very slowly, and picked up the dive bag, or tried to. It was far heavier than it looked. She ended up wrestling it over to Gordon in short heaves, with a maximum of grunting and muttered complaints.

Gordon took the bag from her a few minutes later, oozing through the snow like some polar swamp-thing.

"I feel like I've been excreted...," he said, plaintively.

"Well," TinTin ventured searching for the upside, "you _look..._uh, green." He also looked cold, shivering violently as she helped him into his wetsuit. Next came the dive knife, signal light, buoyancy control vest, waterproof storage case, weight belt and re-breather. Fins and mask, he carried, meaning to put them on in the water.

"Alright, now?" TinTin asked him.

"Yeah. Good t' go, Angel. Thanks."

Leaning forward, she planted a little kiss on his cheek, saying, "Good luck, then, Gordon. Bring back the gold... or, in this case, the brothers."

"Right. See you at the other end. Take care."

Moments later he was in the river, moving with the silent grace of a shark through black, frigid water. TinTin blew a last kiss in his presumed direction, then hurried back to the humvee.

In the morning, Cindy faced a dilemma. There was just enough light to see and sneak off by, but it was clear that while she might succeed in getting away, Scott was still too weak to travel.

He'd been fiddling with his broken watch all morning, too, seeming really dejected at not knowing the exact time. Fever must have gotten to him, she decided, more than a little concerned.

"You know what?" She told the pilot, over a cold breakfast of chicken noodle soup, oreo cookies and melted snow, "I don't think it's such a good idea to try walking out of here, now. We'll leave obvious tracks, we might get caught outside by a blizzard or by nightfall.. It's too dangerous. Maybe we should use the last of the battery and try to make a call."

"No good," Scott muttered. "They'll be monitoring the airwaves, follow the signal right to us." Frowning, he tapped on the watch again. "What's wrong with this stupid thing! I know it's cracked, but still it oughta at least get..."

"Scott? This obsession with the time? It's unhealthy. Let it go, please, and try to focus?"

Definitely, he was losing it. Cindy knew she ought to go. She had a pretty fair chance of escaping with her life if she left now, but... he didn't. Flatly, if she took off, Scott was as good as dead. Someone would notice her tracks, follow them back to the van, and find there a badly wounded, touched-in-the-head Thunderbird pilot. Or, if he tried to come with her, the exertion would start him bleeding again, he'd collapse in the snow and die. And... truthfully... Cindy found that she just didn't want to leave him, crazy or not.

"Here, Scott; why don't you look at this, instead!" She said brightly, reaching into one of her coverall pockets to pull out a gold charm bracelet. "It's shiny, too. And look, there's even a little clock!"

He left off fretting over the watch to glance over at what she was holding.

"Uh-huh. Very pretty. And... full of dangly things. Virgil would have a fishing-lure field day. What's it for?"

"It's a bracelet," she replied, still trying to distract him, and more than half concerned that he might decide to set off in search of a new watch. "I don't wear it during broadcasts; too noisy. Every one of the charms stands for something important, though, so I always keep it close."

Explaining the significance of each and every charm, she was able to keep Scott occupied for a good fifteen minutes. Finally, edgy, impatient, and utterly baffled by her behavior, he said,

"Look, I can explain about the watch, but what's the deal with this bracelet you keep waving at me?"

"You, first," she responded cautiously. So, Scott broke his second major rule that morning, describing in detail the wrist comm's purpose and capabilities to an outsider. Against procedure, but it was that or have her go on thinking he'd popped his cork. When he'd finished, Cindy remained skeptical. After all, it still looked like a big Rolex with a cracked face to her, but she was willing to extend him a little sanity credit, anyway. Now for the other mystery.

"Right, then. So, what about the bracelet? What's it for, really?"

"Um, it's jewelry. It looks pretty."

"That's it?" He asked, disbelievingly. "That's all it does? No gadgets? Scanners? Weapons? Nothing?"

Cindy shook her head.

"Why bother, then? What good 're a bunch of shiny, dangly things that don't even shoot?"

Cindy was about to snap off a heated reply when the sudden, distinct sound of boots crunching through snow stopped her cold. Someone was coming. She and Scott whipped 'round to face the noise, then glanced back at each other. All at once grim-faced and calm, he forced himself to his feet, pushed Cindy behind him, and drew his weapon.


	11. Over the river and through the woods

_The rescue team closes in, Brains overland, Gordon by river._

_11_

Brains drove for all he was worth, snow-bogging through the drifts like a teenager with too much horsepower until he reached the ragged edge of the woods. Here there wasn't cover enough for the humvee, so they'd have to abandon the vehicle and walk.

There wasn't far to go, at least. From their vantage, about halfway down a long, sloping hill, they could just make out the mine buildings, a long, greasy loop of river, and the iced-over hulk of Thunderbird 2. 1, he figured, was over on the other side somewhere, hidden from view by its sister's hefty tonnage... unless it had already been paid for and hauled off, that is...

Brains swallowed hard, suddenly. The Tracys might be his adopted family, but the Thunderbirds were his children, and the thought of his firstborn in the hands of a stranger made him almost physically ill. It wasn't just Scott and Virgil he was rescuing.

Striding over to the back of the humvee, Hackenbacker began silently rummaging through his equipment, trying to decide what was actually essential.

A short-range transmitter... yes, definitely. Broad-spectrum scanner... indispensable. Dish antenna, inert absorption gel, wire cutters... yes, yes and yes. Regretfully, he left behind the explosive de-naturing spray, on the grounds that it was an untested technology, and the canister was too heavy to lug through the snow. Maybe next time, though...

After locking up the humvee, Brains tapped his wrist comm, meaning to call in to John with a last status check before committing himself and the kids to a desperate mine raid. All he got was static. For some reason, John wasn't answering. Puzzled, Hackenbacker tried again. Still nothing. Almost, Brains made a move to reset the dial for Gordon, then stopped himself.

A wrist comm going off at the wrong moment might betray Gordon to the enemy, getting him captured or killed. Also..., if something else had gone wrong, if John, too, had been neutralized, Brains didn't want the others to know. Not yet, anyway. They were worried enough already. For that matter, so was he. Like everyone else on the team, Brains was accustomed to John being there at the touch of a comm button, ready always with exactly the right information and assistance to save the mission. To lose him now was dangerous, and scary. One thing at a time, though.

Giving Alan and TinTin each a rifle and ammunition, he told them sternly,

"K-keep to cover as best, ah... as best you c-can. R-remember, once y-you, ah... you start sh-shooting, you're c-committed. Y-you've, ah... you've given away y-your position."

"Gotcha, Brains," Alan responded with a grin, seeming to regard the whole thing as a rather elaborate game of paint ball, "sneak and peek, snoop and poop, always think before you shoot."

TinTin shoved him. "Be serious, Alan!" Then, turning back to the frowning engineer, "Don't worry, Brains. I'll keep a closeeye on him!"

"G-good! Somebody, ah... somebody needs to! You, ah... you can s-see the mine from h-here, and the 'Birds," he continued, abruptly changing the subject. "Stay t-together, and s-stick to the plan."

Then it was time to set off. Brains loaded himself down with as much electronic equipment as he could carry, bade farewell to the kids, and staggered off between sparse, acid-shriveled trees.

Not far away, Virgil was suddenly hauled upright and hurled through the door of his cage by a grinning thug. Unable to catch himself, he crashed to the floor at the Hood's feet.

"Good morning," his captor sneered, feigning civility. "You will forgive me, I trust, for my inattentiveness, yesterday? I was distracted, sadly, by the minutiae of secure financial transactions, and unable to see to your comfort. You will not, however, be so neglected today."

Virgil raised his head long enough to give the Hood a calm, level stare. "No loss."

The Hood smiled.

"It is always so gratifying to encounter bravado this early in the game. The pleasure of grinding it into utter, abject submission is all the more deeply rewarding, later. I thank you. Truly. But, enough small talk. Your little organization is due to make a payment on you before Greenwich noon. Time zones being what they are, we've some hours to wait. I have little doubt that they'll meet my asking price..., like most Americans, they've a foolish and easily manipulated tendency to focus on the individual, rather than the... 'big picture'... I think the phrase is? However, I also fully expect some form of ill-conceived rescue attempt. You see...," the Hood signaled his henchmen forward, "...people with morals are completely predictable. That, my young friend, is what makes being unprincipled such an advantage. Bit unfair, really... but amusing." At his word, the Hood's followers used handcuffs and leg-irons to fasten Virgil to the outside of the cage, facing the office entrance. Settling himself back against a desk, the Hood added, "Now, we have only to sit back and await the fireworks."

The river was all but devoid of life, more a chemical sump than a stretch of flowing water. Except for Gordon and a handful of pallid, cancerous-looking crustaceans, nothing moved at all. As far as he could see, which wasn't very, there was nothing much there but corroded metal, cement chunks and thick grey slime.

About halfway along, after that first eastward bend that John's map had predicted, Gordon's vision began to blur. Thinking that his mask had got mucked up somehow, he reached up to wipe it off. Instead of slime or dirt, though, his gloved fingers encountered pits and scratches. The glass of his face mask was being etched. More chillingly still, a swift inspection showed that his wetsuit had begun to blister and tear. All at once, Gordon redoubled his speed, deciding that it was better to be winded in the mine than dissolved in the river. Brains' gunk didn't seem so revolting, just then.

There were two more bends to traverse, and a steep-walled ravine, if he remembered correctly. After that a northerly tributary led to the bowl-shaped valley that held the copper mine and his brothers. Question was, would he live long enough to reach them?

Once or twice, Gordon considered leaving the river, but rejected the notion, knowing full well he'd never make it through the snow on foot, in a tattered, iced-over wetsuit. When he got down to bare skin he'd have no other choice, but for the time being, Gordon simply picked up the pace and took his chances.

Finally, he reached the tributary. This, Gordon knew, was the most dangerous part of his journey. Here the water was harshly contaminated with nitric acid and heavy metals; mercury, mostly. The less time spent there, the better. Pushing himself, he reached the end of the line ( an enormous effluent culvert) just as his mask became utterly useless.

He lunged blindly into the crusted pipe, located a set of ladder bars by feel, climbed about twenty meters, and heaved himself out onto wet, pitted concrete. Ripping off his face mask, Gordon thrust a hand into the waterproof storage bag for his sidearm. Still there, and undamaged. Panting a little, he thumbed off the safety catch and did a quick three-sixty; spotted nothing immediately dangerous.

He stood on the lip of a concrete and steel holding tank in a damp, low-ceilinged chamber. Rectangular... about 100 x 50 meters... deserted, but for him. There was a metal door in the nearest wall, painted a flaking battle-ship grey, with some sort of red-lettered warning sign in the dead center. Needing a translation, he nearly hit the wrist comm to John, then recalled that a signal could be traced, and that he was supposed to be stealthy.

"Well," Gordon murmured to himself, after a quick glance at the map, "no time like the present t' find out who's behind door number one."

He'd no time to lose, for his brothers' sake as well as his own. An all-over prickling sensation, like the beginnings of a really wretched sunburn, had just set up. Deciding that he'd better shower and change before things started dropping off, he strode to the door.

"Oh, look," he said sarcastically, "a padlock. That's s'posed to stop me, is it?"

Once again, he reached into the bag, this time withdrawing a laser cutting tool. Silent, but powerful, the tool made short work of the heavy steel padlock, and then Gordon was through.

He found himself in a long east-west corridor, dim and deserted. Another quick glance at the map decided his direction. There was an employees' shower and locker room not far off, and he had to get out of the now-gummy wet suit before it failed completely or the sheer chemical reek gave him away.

By the time he got to a shower the protective lotion had turned grey and begun to flake off. Beneath it, his skin was reddening, beginning to show signs of burning. The wetsuit looked a total loss, but he rinsed it out anyway; force of habit.

Then, a thorough scrub-down and clothing change later, he was ready to go on. Dressed in an ordinary-looking industrial coverall, Gordon hurried up toward the main building. Perhaps he moved too quickly, though, because less than ten minutes later he was seized from behind as he passed a T-junction. An arm like an iron bar wrapped itself around his neck, hauling him back into the shadows.

Gordon struggled to free himself, ducking his chin to prevent being strangled as he shoved upward with all his might against the prisoning arm. Then the burning-sharp point of a dagger touched his throat, just where the pulse thudded. All at once, Gordon became very still. A voice, American by the accent, said quietly,

"You've got to work on your stealth, Kid. Lack of attention to detail'll get you killed, every time. Now," and he shifted his grip just a bit, so that Gordon could breathe again. "I've got one question, and you've got five seconds to respond; what are you doing here?"

"Goin' after my br..., my teammates."

"International Rescue?"

Gordon nodded, as best he could under the circumstances, and hoped he hadn't just made a giant mistake.

"Good answer. You live." The knife point withdrew, followed by the arm. Angry and embarrassed at the ease with which he'd been caught, Gordon whirled to face the voice. A large man stood there, smiling slightly as he tapped the flat of a knife blade against his gloved palm. Dressed in black clothing and dark paint, he all but melted into the dimness around them.

"Murphy. US Navy Seals. A friend of yours requested our assistance." Then, frowning a little, "How old are you, anyway?"

"Um... nineteen," Gordon lied.

"Sure you are." Sliding his knife back into its sheath, Murphy said, "we're here on what you might call an unofficial basis, as a favor. Macedonia would prefer to handle their own security, so we're keeping a low profile. Back-up, you could say."

Made sense. Shaking off his pricked vanity, Gordon shared his map, more up-to-date and accurate than Murphy's stock CIA version.

"How certain are you of your source?" the Seal asked, examining the chart minutely.

"He's never been wrong yet, that I've heard of. Best satellite imaging gear in existence. Seriously."

Satisfied, Murphy turned his head slightly and began murmuring new instructions in a low, raspy voice to his scattered fire-team. Gordon could only assume they all wore some sort of receiving implant, because the man's voice was barely audible three feet away. When he'd finished briefing his men, Murphy said,

"Go on ahead. Our best intelligence suggests that the hostages are being held in the main office, above ground. Remote triggering devices for the aircraft seem to be there, too. We'll be around, but out of sight, trying not to set anything off. Try it your way, first. If things start to go wrong, we'll move in. Clear?"

"Clear, thanks. And... keep an eye out, would you, f'r a couple of kids comin' in through the front? They might need a bit of help."

"Kids? You mean, younger than you? Damn. You rescue guys must recruit heavily from the middle schools. Sure. I'll tell Recon to watch out for 'em. Take care your own self."

They parted with a handshake, Gordon now suspicious of each shadow and alcove, his pace just a bit more stealthy. Ten minutes later he'd reached a lift, at the top of which lay the main office building. He didn't trust it not to be guarded, though.

Coming to a sudden decision, Gordon reached into the open lift doors and pressed the 'up' button. There was a set of stairs nearby, for use during power failures. He'd take that, instead.

The lift began to rise, inching its way up in a series of rattling, rusty thumps. Gordon raced it to the ground floor landing, pistol in hand. Cautiously, he pushed the stairwell door open a crack, peering through just in time to see a trio of guards blast apart the lift doors in a roaring storm of automatic gunfire. Ouch. One of the gunmen flew backward, suddenly, felled by an unlucky ricochet. Unlucky for him, anyway.

Taking advantage of their distraction, Gordon slipped past the guards and into the main building. Once more, he consulted his map, pausing long enough to weld shut the lock on the door behind him. That would puzzle his would-be murderers, Gordon figured, without much slowing down the Seals. There would be no going out the way he came in. Not with two wounded brothers, plus Alan and TinTin to shepherd. No, the only way out lay forward, through the remaining gunmen, and the Hood.


	12. Chapter 12: Raid

_Brains makes ready to defuse the captured 'Birds, and Scott fends off a possible attack. With thanks and greetings to Tikatu, Laura, and Zeilfanaat!_

12

Brains reached an ideal transmission spot after perhaps two hours of determined hiking. By the time he crested the last low, wooded ridge he was puffing and blowing like a walrus.

"Out of sh-shape...," he panted to himself, relieved enough by the welcome sight of Thunderbird 1 to joke a little, "l- less time in the lab, m-maybe... and more a-afternoon walks... in the s-snow... uphill... w-with a Volkswagen on... on my b-back...!"

He set up his equipment in the lee of the ridge, within visual range of both Thunderbirds. Nervously keeping an eye on his surroundings, Hackenbacker began tuning up the scanner. Figuring that the bombs were likely motion-triggered, with a remotely signaled detonation feature, he began scanning them electronically, planning to determine the detonation frequency, and jam it.

It was delicate work, and Brains found himself sweating despite the icy wind. If he chose wrongly, or if the scanner developed feedback at just the wrong frequency, there would be nothing left of the 'Birds but a couple of smouldering craters. Worse yet, and HE would have thought of such a trick, himself... What if the bombs were rigged so that jamming one would automatically trigger the other? Or set to detonate at any signal whatsoever? The nightmarish scenarios seemed endless.

So, Hackenbacker was cautious, methodical, and very, very slow. He hit touch pads and adjusted field strengths with the approximate sensations of a parent trying to lure his three-year-old out of a cage full of sleeping crocodiles. Eyes fixed on the scanner gauge, he prayed fervently for the sudden spike that would indicate success. Then, finally..., something. A needle jiggled, just a bit. Brains took off his glasses, wiped the fog away on his jacket sleeve, then set them firmly back in place. He had it, probably.

Glancing across once at the blunt-nosed, whalish bulk of Thunderbird 2, at the clean, sleek lines of 1, he bit his lip and began the jamming transmission. This was it. He was far too close to come away unscathed. Either he'd found the right frequency, or he'd go up with his 'Birds.

_Back at the news van: _It was a bold gesture, gallant and foolish. There was no way Scott could protect her, but Cindy knew he was willing to die trying. Genuinely terrified, she scooped up the van's steel wheel-lock, holding it like a club in her right hand as she hooked the fingers of her left through Scott's belt.

The sliding door handle rattled a bit. Softly, as though someone wanted to get in without alerting the van's inhabitants. Cindy's entire universe contracted to that handle. The side door was locked, but she didn't seriously expect that to stop a determined intruder. A glowing line began slowly tracing itself around the locking mechanism. The intruder was cutting through the door. With some cold, distant sliver of her mind, Cindy was aware of Scott thumbing back the hammer of his pistol, aware that her grip on his belt was so tight that her fingers actually hurt. Suddenly, the young man who'd placed himself between her and death meant more than anything else in the world, because she expected it all to end, soon.

"Scott?" She whispered swiftly, eyes locked on the door. "Thanks... for everything."

"Yeah. Same here."

Then the lock slid out and thumped to the floor at their feet, still smoking at the edges. A split instant later, the door was yanked open, and someone sprang within.

Meanwhile, TinTin and Alan hadmade good time. Unburdened by anything but weapons and G.P.S. gear, they were able to take a direct route through more challenging terrain than Hackenbacker. They ran into company fairly quickly, traveling less than three quarters of a mile before they crested a high ridge and found themselves face to face with a small troop of twenty or thirty lightly armed civilians. Locals, from the look of them. Dark-haired, scowling teenagers, mostly, with some adults thrown in, and a few grizzled officers in faded uniform. They looked tense and determined... and spoke no English whatsoever.

Alan repeated, "International Rescue. Here to help," several times, smiling and pointing at himself and TinTin in what he hoped was a friendly, soothing manner, then said it all again louder, as though more volume would help their comprehension.

TinTin elbowed him aside, electronic phrase book in hand. The only Macedonian words she'd bothered to memorize were threats and commands, far from ideal at the moment. She had a feeling that these people had armed themselves to re-take the mine and save the hostages, not to hunt down rescuers.

"Um...," she began tentatively, "zDravo...? Kako ste?"

Somebody giggled. Evidently she'd mangled the pronunciation. Blushing, TinTin tried again; met with no better success. Then a slim, brown haired girl with heavy eyebrows and a friendly smile came forward. Pointing at herself she said carefully,

"Krste. Krste Koncaliev." And hazarded further, in her own mangled accent, "Parlez-vous Francais?"

"Oui! Absolutment! Dieu Merci!" TinTin responded gratefully. As she spoke French fluently, and Krste was able to limp along in it, communications were established and plans hurriedly explained. The home-grown rescue effort had been well under way, it seemed, but additional volunteers were more than welcome.

"Yeah, buddy!" Alan exclaimed, when TinTin and Krste got around to translating their conversation, "The cavalry is about to arrive!"

The van shook as two more fatigue-clad figures leapt within, their assault rifles leveled squarely at Scott's chest.

"Marine Recon!" One of them shouted, "Drop your weapons!"

Weak with relief, Cindy sagged against Scott's back, momentarily, thinking, _'Thank God, thank God, oh, thank you, God!'_

Scott gave her a quick _'I knew it all along' _smile. Then, carefully placing his pistol on an equipment shelf, the pilot said,

"No problem, Lieutenant. Boy, are we glad to see you."


	13. Chapter 13: Hostage

_A firefight, and several reunions._

13

Brains permitted himself a single, joyous whoop. He'd done it! The electronically triggered bombs on Thunderbirds 1 and 2 had been safely jammed. All he had to do now was...

...stay absolutely still. The cold muzzle of a rifle prodded at the back of his neck, and a harsh, accented voice rumbled,

"Shut off jammer! Slowly! No tricks!" Then, once Hackenbacker had complied, "On your feet! Hands behind head and walk toward airships. You like so much to save, you go with them."

Stunned, Brains tried to come up with another plan, but found himself unable to think; all too aware, as he marched slowly forward through the snow, that he was squarely in someone's cross-hairs. Another pace, then a few more. Thunderbird 2 grew bigger with each step. Soon, he'd be within range of the motion sensors, and all would be lost. Looking at them, larger than life and twice as beautiful, Brains had to blink back tears. He'd meant to save the 'Birds, not be turned into the weapon that finished them.

_'No!'_ He thought, angrier than he'd ever been. Shouting aloud now, he added defiantly,

"I won't do it! You c-can shoot m-me dead, you bastard, before I t-take another step!"

The crack of a rifle split the air, suddenly, went echoing and re-echoing off hills, buildings and cliff sides. And... he was somehow still alive. Another voice, this one cultured and feminine, British down to the core, said softly,

"Hiram, Dear, that's far enough."

Startled, Brains spun around, saw Lady Penelope emerge from behind a snowdrift, along with her bundled-up, rifle-toting driver. Improbably outfitted in a chic, hooded ski suit, Penelope looked no more dangerous or threatening than a weekend holiday-maker. Parker, though, was another matter. He looked like what he was; a barely reformed old criminal with more twists and tricks than a carnival barker. Penelope had seen something in him though, and had her faith repaid a thousand times over, usually with a gun.

Adjusting her hair, Lady Penelope turned to her servant, gave him an approving little nod, and added serenely,

"Excellent shooting, Parker, as always."

"Thank you, M'Lady."

Actually grinning, Brains loped over to join them, wringing Parker's hand as though he meant to tear it off.

"Th-Thanks, to, ah... to b-both of you! Lady Penelope, Parker, you c-couldn't be a more, ah... more welcome s-sight!"

"Quite alright, Brains. One does what one can. Now, about that jamming device of yours...?"

"Oh...ah, yes, indeed! G-got to get th-that turned, ah... turned on again b-before a passing squirrel or s-something sends us into, ah... into orbit!" As he raced back up the side of the ridge, careful to keep low, Hackenbacker called back, "Th-the others are, ah... are still at the, ah... the m-mine! W-we'd better h-hurry over there and h-help!"

"Don't distress yourself, Hiram." Penelope chided gently. "Defusing bombs requires a steady hand. Besides, we've what you might call... 'an ace in the hole'... already planted."

_Back in the mine office :_ Hearing voices, Gordon inched his way slowly forward. The room he found himself in was as big as a gymnasium, with metal catwalks and stairs connecting the ground floor to a series of second- and third- storey offices. Far overhead, steel-louvered skylights let in a bit of illumination, and the occasional fine sifting of snow.

Keeping to the shadows, Gordon got within sight of the speaker.

"Mother of God...," he whispered, having to clutch at a stair-rail to keep himself from rushing forward. "Virgil...!"

His brother was chained to the outside of some kind of cage, beaten so badly he looked like a small animal someone had ground underfoot, then kicked aside. The Hood spoke again, seeming to direct his words at Gordon.

"Ah..., company at last. I was beginning to wonder if the American military and the local militia were going to remain alone in their efforts. A few more moments," he said carelessly, "And I would have had my young guest, here, machine-gunned apart, one limb at a time, 'pour encourager les autres', so to speak. Then again, perhaps I shall, anyway."

Before the Hood could complete his lazy hand signal, Gordon leapt from hiding, having lost all thought of stealth, or planning.

_"Let him alone!"_ He shouted, pistol locked onto the Hood's forehead. "I'll shoot y' down where you stand, I swear it!"

"Will you?" The Hood chuckled softly, utterly unafraid. "Will you, truly? Firstly, little boy, you will do nothing without my leave, not even pull a trigger, or breathe."

And somehow, he was right. Gordon found that his body was suddenly frozen. Despite the screaming need to shoot, to draw breath, he could do nothing but stand there, slowly suffocating.

"Secondly," the Hood continued, "even if you succeeded in killing me, my guards would soon make short work of you, then proceed to drag your team mate from life, inch by screaming inch. They've been well trained. But, you see? I am merciful." And with that he released his deadlock on Gordon's mind, freeing him to breathe again, if not to fire.

"And now that I have your respectful attention, I will tell you what moves are allowed, at this stage of our game. You may drop the gun, and take what is coming to you like a man, or stand and watch as our mutual friend is killed in the most horrible manner I can devise. And so, I await your decision."

For the life of him, Gordon couldn't think what to do. Murphy had said that if things got out of hand, he'd be ready to help, but Gordon had the sinking feeling that even the Navy Seals were mere pieces on the Hood's board, to be moved about at will.

All at once, a burst of gunfire turned the Hood's attention toward the building's entrance. Alan and TinTin! Gordon tried to shout, desperate to warn them off, but couldn't so much as whisper. With a terrible effort, possible only because his captor's concentration was divided, Gordon rotated his right hand and smashed the wrist comm's face against his thigh, holding it there for several long seconds.

Outside, Alan and TinTin jumped, shocked at the sudden urgent squeals from their own wrist comms. No picture came up, nor any sound but the alert. The signal originated from Gordon, but...

"He's in trouble?" TinTin shouted worriedly, over the sound of sporadic gunfire. Most of the guards had already gone down, but a few were still stubbornly returning fire, refusing all offers of quarter.

"No...," Alan replied, shaking his head. "Knowing Gordon he'd wait to call for help from his hospital bed. He's trying to warn us, bet me!"

"So what do we do!"

"What're you kidding? Ignore it and go help him. Very, _very_ carefully."

Nodding, TinTin turned and shouted their plan to Krste, who informed one of the officers. He was holding a wadded up shirt against a girl's leg wound, and shouted something back that sounded less than encouraging. Alan seized TinTin's arm, yelling,

"C'mon, while we still can't understand him! We gotta get in there and help Gordon!"

Inside the building, Gordon managed a single, rubber-legged step, got a shot off about four feet too high, and then froze again, as what felt like the chisel end of a pry bar smashed through his skull. And then again, and once more, with just enough respite in between to make the next onslaught truly agonizing. Then, all at once, it stopped.

Alan had shot the front doors apart, and he and TinTin came racing into the office, followed by an angry mob. The Hood's remaining men fired on the crowd, or tried to. Three of them collapsed in rapid succession, felled by precision sniping; the Seals.

Then the Hood held up a hand, palm outward, and everything just... stopped. No sound or movement, not even a gasp or shuffle. Everyone simply froze. Familiar with the sensation, Gordon didn't waste time wondering what had happened to his body, or listening to the Hood's smug comments. Instead, he decided what to do next. The gun. It lay on the concrete floor, about two feet in front of him, and a little to the left. When... _if_... he was able to move again, he'd seize his pistol and put that gloating sadist out of business for good. Long athletic training had taught him the value of mental practice, so now, instead of an up-coming swim meet, Gordon pictured his dive, grab, roll and shoot.

"Well, well...," the Hood purred softly, obliviously. "So much to work with, one hardly knows where to begin! This venture has exceeded all expectations. But, all good things must come to an end, and as I am now quite possibly the wealthiest man on Earth," he'd reached into his robes, pulled forth some sort of electronic signaling device, "I will close our little session with a bang."

"No, you won't," someone corrected coldly, from an upper catwalk. Three shots split the air. The Hood jerked three times, then crashed to the floor, pierced through the heart. All hell immediately broke loose. The twenty or so guards still alive began firing on the Macedonians, who fired back. The Seals went back to work as well, filling the chamber with hollow points, and some kind of lung-searing gas. Gordon leapt. Not for the gun, but for his brother, still fastened to the cage and completely vulnerable. With a flying tackle worthy of the rugby field, Gordon crossed the distance between them, flung himself against Virgil, and knocked him, cage and all, to the ground.

The chaos continued forever, it seemed; bullets whining and spanging off metal, concrete chips flying, people yelling, gas grenades popping and hissing. Through it all Gordon did his best to shelter his comatose brother, as the fighting raged all over and around them.

Then a silence of sorts fell. Not the Hood's icy stasis, though. This one contained moans and curses in several languages, and the sounds of nervous survivors patting themselves down, or coughing through rigged-up cloth masks. Someone clasped Gordon's shoulder and gave it a fond little shake.

"You know," a familiar, slightly sardonic voice informed him, "It'd be a real shame for Virgil to survive all this just to get crushed to death by you. How about rolling off?"

_"John!"_ Gordon sat bolt upright, gave his older brother a relieved grin and a welcoming gut-punch. "How'd you get here!"

"Emergency escape pod," John replied, easily dodging the playful blow. "I timed the release to put me down as close to the danger zone as possible, and Penny brought me the rest of the way. Thought you could use a hand."

"That was you, then? Up on the scaffold?"

John nodded solemnly. "That was me. I came in through the roof. Figured he wouldn't expect someone dropping down on him like that. Bad news is, I can't find his body anywhere. I could swear I nailed him...!"

"So, he tucked tail and ran. At least y' got him off us! More n' the rest of us could do, and God knows there were some true professionals trying." Out loud, Gordon would no more betray concern or strong emotion than his brothers would. Inside, though, he was worried. John _had _hit him; three times, in the heart. How could the Hood have survived? To cover his confusion, he got out his cutting tools and set about freeing Virgil. The cuffs and leg irons came off in seconds and were hurled aside. Then Gordon gently lifted his older brother and set him down on a desk top John had swept clear of debris. Virgil came around at last, saying so quietly that Gordon had to lean close to hear him,

"Hey, Kid... How y' doing?"

Gordon smiled at him. "Better than you, I'm thinking." Then, "Y'know what, Virgil? I'm tired of this place. Let's go home."

"Works... for me. B' what about Scott? Where's Scott?"

Another worry toshrug off. "Oh, outside somewhere, talkin' shop with the Marines. You know how he is."

Virgil knew how Gordon was.

"Go find him, okay? He might... might be hurt."

In the meantime, Alan had come over with TinTin and a first aid kit; said he'd gotten it from the first guy he'd met in Macedonia who actually spoke English. "... He said to tell you that it still needs work, and that you'd know what he was talking about."

Great. He was receiving absentee stealth criticism now. Just what he needed. Shaking his head, Gordon took the kit and began seeing to the worst of Virgil's injuries. His brother was going to need serious medical attention, and soon, but there was a lot Gordon could do in the meantime to stabilize him, and make him more comfortable. Then, immediacies seen to, he turned Virgil over to Alan, just as a well-armed Marine came in through the shattered doors, looked around, then headed over to the little group beside Virgil. Focusing on the only person present in the proper uniform, he asked John,

"International Rescue?"

John nodded, bracing himself for the worst. The young Marine continued,

"There's something outside I think you'll want to see, Sir. Will one of you please come with me?"

John signaled Gordon with a slight jerk of his head, adding under his breath, "Talk to me first, before you say anything to the others."

"Right." And Gordon followed the Marine back outside, past a wrecked assault vehicle and over to a makeshift triage center. Little more than a canvas tent supported by crates and aluminum poles, it was heavy on supplies and equipment, light on medical personnel.

The first thing Gordon saw was the wheeled stretcher. Then, who was on it. Scott; eyes shut, terribly still, but unsheeted.

"_Scott!"_ He raced over to the stretcher, slipped on an icy bit, and nearly tipped his oldest brother into the snow, regaining his balance at the last instant by clutching at the gurney's metal rail. Jolted back to consciousness by the impact, Scott opened his eyes.

"In a hurry?" He asked drowsily, too loaded down with painkillers to yell.

"Oh..., uh... no. Just... wanted t' see how you're doin'. You know, curious, is all."

"M' okay. Got a few new holes in my hide..., but nothing Brains can't patch up. How's Virge?"

"Busted up a bit, actually. Looks like he'll be complainin' his way through a couple of weeks' TV n' bed rest, again."

"He c'n just shut up and take it. S' good for him. Everybody else?"

"Good. All in one piece, Scott. Really. So, go back t' sleep and stop worryin', before you bust a stitch, or something. I'll even promise not to tip you over again."

His brother chuckled. "You're funny... I'm glad someone... in this family has talent. Listen, Gordon... before I black out...again... I need you to do me a favor. There's... a girl. Go get 'er. She comes...with us."

"A girl?" Gordon repeated confusedly, rubbing at a crick in the back of his own neck. "There's about fifty of 'em out here, Scott. Anyone 'll do? Just pop her over the head and stow her in the hold?"

"No...! Idiot." Apparently, Scott wasn't THAT heavily sedated. "Cindy. Cindy... Taylor. Prettiest one out here. Can't... miss 'er."

"Cindy... _The reporter! _You want t' bring the press along on a launch!"

"Just... do it!"

Gordon shook his head dubiously. "Right. You're in charge, Scott. Just work on those excuses n' pleas f'r mercy; the one's you'll be tryin' to fend Father off with."

And off he went to find the reporter, stopping only long enough to tell John the good news. Then, back to the triage center, where he found a very busy field medic stabilizing people for transport.

As a certified lifeguard and first responder, Gordon was well-versed in first aid and field medicine. Without thinking about it, he began assisting the harried medic. She did a quick double-take, then shrugged and accepted the help.

"Beg pardon, Ma'am," Gordon inquired politely, as they hurriedly splinted a fractured leg, "But there's a reporter out here somewhere, and if...,"

"You mean Taylor? (Tie that off, will you? Thanks.)"

"Yeah. (Careful. Big exit wound in the back, there.) We'd like t' bring her with us, if it's all the same t' you."

"She's an American citizen (More pressure... Good job... just hold that steady while I pour in the quick clot.)... We'll take her to Incerlik, and get her treated at the base hospital there."

"I promise you, Ma'am (Here's a good vein. Have that blood pressure back up in no time...!), we c'n get her to a hospital in the States faster than you folks."

"Hmm... You're probably right. (Okay... one... two... three...and over he goes! Relax, Corporal. You're gonna be okay.) Tell you what; help me finish up here, and Lois Lane is all yours."

"Deal." He would have done, anyway. Part of the job


	14. Chapter 14: What came of it all

_All's well that ends well. Thanks! )_

14

Cindy Taylor sat slumped against a crate, a stenciled wool blanket drawn tight about her slender shoulders. She, too, had been given pain killers, for the wound in her shoulder, and she was finding it difficult to concentrate. Something she'd once heard about not falling asleep in the snow made her force herself to stay awake, though.

As she huddled, bleary and miserable, awaiting airlift to the nearest military hospital, someone came plowing through the snow toward her, breath misting gustily in the frigid air. She looked up, doing her best to focus, and saw a muscular, auburn-haired teenage boy with a tentative smile.

"Miss Taylor?" he asked, in a soft voice utterly at odds with his varsity football squad appearance.

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm with International Rescue. I've been sent t' bring you along t' Thunderbird 2. You're coming with us."

"Oh...!" She brightened right up, even smiling some. "Scott sent you?"

Gordon stopped breathing for a moment, then tried to cover his surprise with brusqueness.

"Orders, Ma'am. I dunno where they originate from. Just doin' what I'm told. Ready?" And he offered her a hand up. Cindy attempted to stand, staggered a bit, and sat back down suddenly.

"Sorry...!" She said, about to try again.

"No panic. Up you get," and with that, the boy scooped her up off the cot and lifted her as easily as if she'd been cut from paper. "You'll be home before y' know it."

She smiled at him, then closed her eyes and drifted off, safe again.

When his passenger was safely stowed in one of Thunderbird 2's drop-down bunks, Gordon rejoined the others out front. John had returned from a quiet conference with the military types, and was handing out flying orders. Spotting Gordon, he signaled him to hurry over. Gordon picked up his pace, trying not to yawn, or scratch at his blistering forearms.

"Delayed at triage," he explained himself. "Sorry."

"No problem," John replied, "so long as all the victims have been seen to?"

"Yeah. Field medic's got the situation in hand, now. We're good t' go."

"Right, then. Brains, you'll be flying Thunderbird 1."

"F.A.B., John. I'll s- see you back at, ah... at the island."

They shook hands, and Hackenbacker stomped energetically off through the snow, uttering a jaunty, tuneless little whistle as he went.

"Gordon, you and TinTin will be in Thunderbird 2 with me. TinTin will look after our wounded. Gordon, you'll co-pilot. If you can, that is...?" By now he'd noticed Gordon's worsening condition, and preferred to keep his younger brother under supervision till they reached the island.

"I'll manage, John. Just prod me awake if we've anymore excitement."

Muttering, "I don't know how much more excitement this family can take...," John turned to Alan. Everyone grew quiet. "Alan, you're in 3. Try to bring her back intact, will you?"

"Uh... yeah. Yeah, okay, John. Will do!" The youngest Tracy positively glowed with pride; happy, finally, to be given his chance. Gordon clapped his brother on the shoulder as the little group broke up, headed for their separate assignments.

"See you back home, Alan. Fly safe."

"Thanks, Man. You, too."

When Cindy was dropped off at a San Francisco trauma center, and the Thunderbird craft were safely berthed for repairs, the wounded were rushed to treatment. Scott received micro-surgery from a handful of swift, tiny nano-bots (another of Brains' inventions), Virgil had his broken bones recast and laser welded, and Gordon went into a medicated healing tank, heavily sedated.

A day or two later they were well enough to gather in the infirmary and 'conference'.

The main topic on everyone's mind was how each had managed to survive the Hood's savage attack. Sitting up a bit in bed, Scott explained how he and Cindy had hidden out (Truthfully, he edited just a little, to preserve his aura of control). Next, Virgil shared a rather laconic account of his treatment that left out the worst bits. He'd never been much of a story-teller anyway, and most of what had happened, he preferred to forget. Gordon followed his brothers' lead, making light of his long swim and subsequent capture, and entirely leaving out what the Hood had done to him afterward. AsJeff would have put it, 'a Tracy never whines'.

Now it was John's turn. There was a bit of good-natured teasing first, for his sudden appearance had turned the tables, and everyone wanted to hear what had finally lured him off of Thunderbird 5.

"I got the idea after I alerted the Seals and Marines. Oh, that..., well, I've helped them out a time or two with some useful recon information, and they owed me. Still do, as far as I'm concerned, but they seem to think it's the other way around, now. Anyway, I decided that just sending the boys, plus TinTin and Brains, was too dangerous. And since...( Yes, TinTin, I know you could have rescued them by yourself. It was Gordon and Alan I was worried about.)" This statement met with general laughter which died down when a beaming Kyrano brought in two high-piled lunch trays. They fell to with gusto, as Virgil prodded,

"So, there you were on the scaffold...,"

"Right," John continued, around a bite of ham sandwich, "Well, the skylight seemed like a good idea at the time. It got me in unseen, partly thanks to a lot of diversions, but once I fired, and lost the element of surprise, that damn metal catwalk also left me magnificently exposed. I spent most of the next fifteen minutes jumping from one level to another, trying not to get shot in the a... the upper thigh." (At the last minute, he'd recalled the presence of TinTin, and amended his choice of words.)

After the kidding stopped, Scott said, "Well, we all made it, anyway. Kind of seems a shame about the money, though. Dad's not gonna be too happy about that, but..."

"Money?" John snorted, looking slightly injured. "You think I sent him real money? I made a bogus deposit, uploaded a couple of nasty viruses and then hit him where I figured it would really hurt." Shaking his head, John added sarcastically, "Go ahead, Jack-ass, give me your account number. I'll clean you out. The Macedonian Children's Relief Fund is now several billion dollars richer."

"Good!" Scott growled. "So, if he _is_ alive, wherever he's got to, the Hood is dead broke, out of thugs, and he's lost all his computer files. Hopefully he'll know better than to mess with us again."

Something unprecedented happened, then. Scott and Virgil had had their say, as had Gordon and John, and even TinTin. A general silence fell, as everyone turned to look at Alan. At first, he was confused, thinking he had lettuce in his teeth, or something, but then he realized that his half-brothers... no, his _brothers_... were waiting to hear his part of the story.

"Uh...," he began, a little uncertainly, "I thought it was cool..., when we were all fighting in the office..., when Gordon did that jump thing, and slammed Virgil out of the line of fire. He was cussing the whole time, I mean it, twenty minutes, at least. I just about learned a whole new language."

"I did not!"

"The whole time, Man! It was hysterical! I could hardly shoot!"

Then, in the midst of all this, the doors opened. Brains walked in, nervously trailing Jeff Tracy. Immediately, all of his sons who were able, stood. Scott sat up as well as he could, and even Virgil tried to straighten out some.

Tall and craggily handsome, with iron-grey hair and a serious, deeply-lined face, the former astronaut and billionaire executive was a force to be reckoned with. He accepted neither nonsense nor excuses from his sons, viewing anything other than his own brand of steely resolve as a form of weakness.

"Good afternoon, Sir." Scott greeted him, all trace of merriment gone. "Welcome home."

Jeff nodded briefly in response, going first to Virgil's bedside, then Scott's. Over his shoulder to Brains, he asked,

"What's their prognosis?"

"R-recovering, Mr. Tracy. Both b-boys are, ah... are doing well. Up and a-about I should say, b-by next week."

"Good." Now he spared a glance for the others, taking in his fourth son's reddened skin. "And Gordon?"

"Ah... s-still on chelating medication, M-Mr. Tracy. On strict ah,... strict or- orders to avoid s-sunlight and chlorine f-for at least two w-weeks."

"I see." Now Jeff Tracy turned his attention to John, who'd gone rather still. "How did you reach the danger zone?"

Very quietly, his second son replied, "I ejected in the emergency escape pod, Sir."

"I see. And, then did... what? Left it lying around to be photographed?"

"Lady Penelope picked me up in the forest after my landing. Parker and I hid the pod, and then we arranged to have another operative collect it, Father. No one... it wasn't seen."

"And Thunderbird 5?"

"On computer stand-by, Sir. All calls are being re-routed here."

Jeff still seemed unsatisfied, though. Turning back to Scott, he snapped, "Whose idea was it to involve the United States military?"

A short silence ensued. Then, once more John spoke.

"It was mine, Father. I... didn't feel that we had enough personnel to deal effectively with the... situation. So, I did it."

"Good thing he did, too," Virgil broke in, anxious to defend his brother. "I don't know what would have happened, Father, if we hadn't gotten the extra help."

"Yeah," Scott added, picking up Virgil's thread, "And John showing up in the nick of time like that saved the rest of our butts. I don't know about Gordon, but I wasn't accomplishing anything."

Gordon shook his head. "Needed all the help I could get, Father, and lucky t' get out alive, at that."

Jeff considered their words, then looked John in the eye, frowned a little, and said, "Not the way I would have chosen to handle it. Too much risk of exposure. Still," he continued grudgingly, "You're all alive, and the organization is secure... Not bad, I suppose." And he unbent enough to give John a bone-rattling clap on one shoulder, then headed over to Scott's bedside for a more thorough debriefing. Moments later, John left the room and started packing.

_San Francisco: _It was nearly three weeks later when the package arrived. Cindy Taylor was at her desk, viewing rough cut clips of a story on the rising water level in San Francisco Bay. It was nice, finally, to be doing something different.

She'd been interviewed on the topic of her ordeal in Macedonia until she was ready to scream. Everyone had questions, but they all seemed aimed at getting her to admit two things; that she knew the identity of a Thunderbird pilot, and that more had passed between them than a freezing, wounded, scramble for survival. And it was 'no' to both. All she knew of Scott was his first name, and she'd heard nothing more from him since arriving at San Francisco Regional Medical Center. That hurt. A lot. And the constant pestering, insinuating questions made it all worse, somehow. The station manager had decided to keep her close to home for a few months, to make certain she'd recovered from the strain, and she had... mostly . Still missed Abe dreadfully, though... and Scott.

Pushing some take-out Chinese food around its cardboard box with a pair of plastic chopsticks, Cindy grumpily forced herself to eat a bite, then got back to work.

"Hey, Cin!" Melinda Charles' frizzy-haired, friendly face popped up over the cubicle wall that separated their work spaces. "You got a package, Hon!"

"A what?"

"A package! You know, comes in the mail, wrapped in paper? People send them, Sweetie. People with lives, who don't work 24/7. Danny's bringing it up. Said your phone's turned off, again."

Cindy leaned back in her swiveling chair. "Yours would be, too, if every second some jerk wanted to give you the third degree about...Hello! What's this?"

Danny, a cute high school intern with a buzz cut and a taste for loud shirts had appeared at the entry to her cubicle, a long, thin parcel in his arms. It was wrapped in red paper, and tied with a wired gold bow.

"Oooh, Girl!" Melinda teased in a sing-song voice, "Somebody likes you! Open it, hurry! Hey everybody, Cindy's got an actual fan! Somebody spent money on her!" Then, as Cindy started to reach for the bow, "NO! Wait! What if it's a crazed fan! A stalker, even! Hon, don't you touch that! This world is... full... of... weirdos!"

"Mel, make up your mind! What d'you want me to do now..., throw it out?" Cindy was becoming exasperated.

"Wait. I'm calling security. In a matter of seconds," Melinda pressed a wall button with a wildly dramatic flourish, "Our crack team of highly trained security personnel will... never mind."

A large, comfortable looking individual had plodded over to Cindy's cubicle from a nearby surveillance office. He was eating a sub, and getting sauce all over his rent-a-cop uniform. "What's up, Ladies?" He asked genially, attempting to straighten his rumpled tie.

"Hey, Lennie," Cindy greeted him, fighting the urge to laugh. Thinking, _'office mates; gotta love em', _she continued, "I got a package from downstairs. Danny brought it up. Mel thinks it might be the work of a twisted weirdo. Could you, like, check and see that it's not ticking, or something?"

"Gotcha, Cindy. Okay... alright... let's have a look, here." And he stumped over to examine the mysterious package, still eating. Then, "Nope. No ticking. In my professional opinion, Ms. Taylor, you should open it and see what's inside. If anything jumps at you, I'll move in."

Cindy shook her head, grinning for the first time in a long time. "Thanks, Lennie. You're a real pal. Well, goodby, cruel world. Here goes nuthin'." Reaching out, a little nervously, Cindy undid the bow, pulled off the red paper (it was embossed, Cindy noticed; expensive!), and opened the box.

"Oh. Wow...," There were a dozen roses inside, their petals such a deep, velvety red they were almost obscene. No card came with them, just a folded piece of paper. Torn from a memo pad, it looked like. Picking up the note, Cindy saw something fall, glittering, and fielded it in mid-air. Lifting it for a closer look, she saw that the item was a golden charm, an exact duplicate of Thunderbird 1, with laser engraving and a little switch on one side. Unfolding the note, she read silently,

"Here's an addition to your collection. It's a laser pointer, too, if you press the switch. Now you have a gadget. Thanks for everything, Love, Scott Tracy."


End file.
